Taking Chances
by battyderp
Summary: T-4 Emilie Demont never wanted this. But when she is drafted, she reluctantly accepts the responsibility of being a medic for the German army. But what she thought was a curse could turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Based off of the miniseries and the actors' portrayals of the men. No offense intended to real soldiers. You are heroes, and have nothing but my love and respect
1. Chapter 1

The air was crisp, but the chill could hardly be felt on the gentle breeze amidst the crowd of moving bodies. Celebratory music blasted through the air, having to play even louder in order to be heard above the excited shrieks of women and the cheers of children and men.

Emilie Demont stood back from the commotion, arms folded over her chest as she watched the scene, eyebrows raised disapprovingly at the way the women were throwing themselves at the American soldiers. The army had just liberated this particular town in Holland, and the inhabitants would be forever grateful – some more than others, evidently. She stepped aside as a teenage boy rushed past her, clearly eager to get a glimpse of the infamous soldiers for himself. _There's a future soldier, _she thought to herself, watching him as he disappeared into the cram of people, _he won't be quite so keen when he's the one fighting. Poor bugger._

Looking around, she noticed many other young men, eyes glistening as they stared at the Yanks. Any one of them could be war heroes in the future.

Before she could dwell on it any longer, a man popped up beside her, making her jump slightly; she hadn't heard him approach, which wasn't surprising what with all the racket.

"What's a pretty lady like yourself doing away from the party?" he asked, an odd grin on his handsome, if not somewhat dirty, face. She recognised an American accent and, looking him up and down, realised he must have been one of the soldiers. He continued to introduce himself as Muck.

She chuckled, "I'm not one for big shindigs."

"But you're missing out on all the fun!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air and glancing over his shoulder to where some Dutch women were gesturing for him to come over. His grin widened and he turned back to her, dipping his helmet slightly, "Well, miss, if you get bored with the lone wolf act, come find me. I know ways to keep the ladies happy."

"I'll keep that in mind, Muck," Before he could leave, she quickly added, "Oh, and congratulations on the victory."

He winked at her, and with that turned and hurried over to the women, slinging his arms over their shoulders and laughing, looking from one to the other.

At that moment, someone crashed into her from behind and she lost her footing. Unable to regain her balance in time, she stumbled forward and tripped over a man's leg, landing on the ground with an audible thud. Cheeks warm with embarrassment and grumbling irritably to herself, she rolled onto her back, about to clamber back onto her feet. But before she could do so, she saw a hand extended in her direction; she couldn't see the person's face, as the sun was behind them, but she took it regardless and the stranger helped her up.

Brushing herself off and running a hand through her hair, she looked up to see her helper. He was a handsome man – an American soldier, once again – with thick black hair so dark it looked almost blue just visible from under his helmet. But what set him apart from Muck and the other Yanks was the white band tied around his left arm, with a deep red cross painted on it. He was a medic, like herself. Only fighting for the other side.

"Thanks," she muttered, preparing to walk away.

But before she could do so, he spoke. He had a strong Cajun accent; it was unusual and strange to her ears, but pleasant nevertheless. She found she thought it was almost comforting, soothing. "You took a bit'ova tumble there, miss," he remarked, and she expected it was his medical training kicking in, "You alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she promised, and couldn't suppress a light laugh, "It's more my pride damaged than anything else. And, besides, I'm a medic," The moment she said it, she regretted it, and slammed her mouth shut. Why had she all of a sudden been so determined to impress him? She could have just put her whole army in danger with that one comment. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

He frowned. "Really? You ain't in the American army."

Emilie somehow managed to maintain her calm. That was one of the perks of being trained as a nurse – you learnt not to panic, even in the tightest situations. "Sorry, I just saw your sash, and it popped into my head. I don't know why I said it. I'm not."

The man didn't seem convinced, but said nothing more on the subject. "What's that accent?" he asked, head tilted slightly to the side quizzically.

"Australian," she answered quickly, and was almost ashamed with herself when she discovered she was laying her accent on extra thick, "I'm from Adelaide, in South Australia. It's nice. Not very exciting, but at least that means no one will bomb it, ey?"

He offered the faintest hint of a smile, "What are ya doin' here, then? It ain't the best time to be takin' a holiday."

Emilie felt her heart plummet. Usually, she was able to lie her way out of anything. She was renowned for that, even if it is not a particularly noble skill. But, for some reason, at that moment, she was tired of constantly hiding herself behind lies, detached from the world. She sucked in a deep breath, and began, "Okay, look, I am a medic. I wasn't bullshitting about that. But I'm a medic for the German army. No, I'm not German, but I was born there, and my parents still live there as official citizens because my dad married my mum, who is from there. So, when the war began, I was drafted, and, since I work as nurse back down under, I became a medic," She shook her head, pausing briefly before continuing, "But I have no love for Hitler or the Nazis. I'm simply bein' loyal to my birth country, and I came here because I'm glad you guys won this battle, because that means the war might be closer to being over. So, if you're gonna shoot me, now would be he time, and you'll have one less Kraut on your hands."

She raised her eyes from where she had been staring at the cobblestone road like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, and was surprised to see there was no look of malice on the man's face. He blinked, before asking softly, "What's your name?"

"Emilie," she answered, frowning, "Emilie Demont."

He dipped his helmet in polite greeting. "I'm Eugene Roe."

Before either of them could anything more, a cry split the air. But it wasn't a delighted one as per usual, it was one of pure fear and sorrow. Both medics whipped their heads around; it was now natural instinct to respond to a yell for help. But this wasn't the kind of injury either of them could fix. Dutch women were being shoved to the ground, in the mud, and men were standing over them, sheering their heads like sheep. Small patches of blood were evident on their now-bald heads as they were shoved away, still crying.

Not thinking, Emilie bolted forward and caught one of the women before she fell. She was young, no more than twenty years of age, and very good-looking despite her shaven head. "Are you okay?" she asked, and the women lent into her touch, burying her head in her shoulder as she wept. Emilie rubbed her back comfortingly, shushing gently.

"Nazi whore!" one of the Dutch men yelled, pointing accusingly at the woman Emilie was consoling. Emilie glanced back down at the woman, confused, but before she could demand to be told what was going on, someone grabbed her dress collar and pulled her back roughly, causing the woman to fall to the ground, still wailing.

"Don't help her," the man that had grabbed her hissed in her ear, "She slept with the Germans! She is filthy!"

Emilie yanked herself free of his grip, glaring at the man as she spun around. But, fearful she should say something stupid again, she forced herself to remain silent and simply stalked off, making her way into one of the more quiet alley ways. No one else was there, albeit a ginger and white tabby cat that was padding expertly on one of the roofs overhead. She shouldn't have come to this celebration in the first place. They were the enemy. And yet she couldn't quite believe that.

Walking over to a rickety wooden cabinet that had been thrown out onto the street, she heaved herself up, leaving her feet dangling in mid-air. She leaned back against the brick wall, closing her cerulean blue eyes. Her hair had been messed up in the fray, and now a few dark red locks fell over her face.

"You really are a medic."

She recognised the voice and half-opened her eyes to see Eugene standing at the entrance to the alley. He hesitantly walked towards her until he could rest an elbow on the cabinet, using the other hand to place a cigarette between his lips and then a silver zippo to light it. He inhaled deeply and tipped his head back, blowing out the smoke slowly. As he did so, she found her eyes were fixated on his lips. But she shoved the thought aside as soon as it slipped into her mind.

"I told you so, sir," she replied softly, letting out a soft sigh.

He nodded, taking a few more breaths of the cigarette before letting it drop to the ground where he stomped it out. "You were brave," he continued, "Everyone else stood back and just let it happen. But not you, miss Emilie."

She couldn't resist the small smile that crept onto her lips, both at his praise and at the way he pronounced certain words. "I'm a woman," she answered simply, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "We've gotta work extra hard to get noticed."

"It pays off," Eugene raised his eyes to meet hers, "If you don't mind my askin', what's it like workin' for the K…" He quickly corrected himself, "The Germans?"

Emilie was slightly taken aback by the question, and shrugged, plucking a loose strand of fabric from her now-dusty dress and picking at it while she spoke, "They're just people, Eugene. Like you and me. Most don't even support the Nazis, you know, they just fight for their country, as you fight for yours. I'm… Well, I'm pretty honoured to be able to work alongside those men and women."

Eugene seemed to be at a loss for words for a few seconds, but finally he nodded once and said nothing more. An awkward silence filled the air, until Emilie scooted forward and jumped from the cabinet, landing gracefully. She was once again thankful for the fact she wasn't wearing her army uniform.

"Well, I'm sorry, Eugene Roe," She smiled and pretended to tip her non-existent hat like she had seen countless soldiers do before, "But I have to be getting back to my Company," A mischievous glint appeared in her eyes, "They don't know I'm here, and I think they'd be pretty damn pissed if they found out. They'd probably have my head."

He nodded again and gave a small, almost non-existent smile that disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared. "Pleasure meeting you, miss Demont. If God is kindly, this war will be over soon and we won't hav'ta fight 'gain."

Emilie extended her hand, and after a brief moment's pause, Eugene took it, shaking. Light blue met dark as they locked eyes for a split second, before Emilie gave a mocking salute and hurried away, careful to keep her head down as she forged a way through the bustle of people. But, as she did so, she was almost once again knocked aside as the American soldiers tried to make their way past, a more stern expression now plastered on their faces.

Looking back, and having to stand on tip-toes to see over the tops of the heads around her, she saw Eugene exit the alley way. As soon as he was out in the open, a woman rushed over to him and looked prepared to plant a kiss straight on his lips. But as soon as the woman saw the sash indicating he was a medic, she turned up her nose and ran over to where a taller, red-haired man was standing next to a shorter, dark-haired, looking concerned, and kissed him squarely on the lips before darting away.

Emilie gritted her teeth in annoyance at how little respect people had for medics. They put their lives on the line daily, even more so than normal soldiers as they had to run into the most dangerous of places to help their fallen comrades when all others had fallen back. They had to operate while being careful to not be hit by the cross-fire, and also had basic fire-arm training to accompany their knowledge of medicine. They were the unsung heroes of war. The angels of the battlefield.

Then it hit her. The American soldiers were trying their best to rush away, most likely having had more reports of German attacks. "Shit," she growled under her breath, now shoving people aside in her desperation to leave and re-join the army. What if they needed her? What if someone had been hit and they died because she wasn't there? Because she had been off gallivanting around at a celebration for the enemy? What if she was listed as AWOL and shot on sight? There was no time to rest in war, "_Shit_."

But perhaps it had been worth it. Because she had met a certain young medic that had managed to quite turn her head.


	2. Things Happen, People Die

"Where the hell have you been?" demanded her CO in Deutsch as soon as she skidded into camp, almost tripping and falling on her ass when she ran over some loose earth. He had been giving orders and setting up sniper positions when he had heard her approach – of course, even a half-deaf man could have heard her coming. Though she was usually as silent as a cat on her feet, having done dance as a child, when she was in a hurry she was louder than all the men in their heavy army boots, "Mein Gott, Demont! Spinnst du?"

Then he seemed to notice what she was wearing, staring at her questioningly. "Care to explain this?" He gestured to her curly hair pulled back, for once not a tangled mess; her pale grey, off the shoulder dress with white frills; and, perhaps most shocking, her small heels. She actually looked like a woman for once.

She felt a little uncomfortable, trapped in his gaze, but cleared her throat and answered confidently, also in German with her strange Australian-German accent, "I'm very sorry, sir, but I went to visit some of my family. We don't get much R&R time, you see, and since the Yanks seemed quiet, I thought I'd take a few hours."

"Without asking me?" he raised his bushy eyebrows sceptically and took a small step forward so he was towering over her. It was a feeling she was used to, what with her small stature, so she stared up at him defiantly, which appeared to throw him a little, "Just because you are Australian and a medic doesn't mean you can go behind my back. When you are here, you are under my command. Don't forget your place, Demont, or I won't be quite so forgiving next time."

She dipped her head, "Understood, sir. Thank you, sir." With a final grunt, he turned and stalked back to his soldiers, leaving Emilie feeling just a little proud of her ability to get out of a tight situation.

Humming the tune to Waltzing Matilda, she made her way downstairs, an extra bounce in her step. Half way down the wooden stairs, she ran into her friend, Kattenstroht. He had his rifle slung over one shoulder, and, upon seeing the enflamed stitches on his chin, she instantly remembered stitching him up after one of the replacements accidentally spun their weapon around and caught him in the face.

"Where have you—" he began, stopping one step above her and looking down.

"I just went through that with Bernd," she interrupted with a smile and a shake of her head, "Don't make me repeat myself, Kat," Frowning, she tilted her head slightly to the side and reached up, placing her thumb on his stitched-up chin. When he flinched away, she told him, "Once I get out of these clothes and back into my stinking, horrible, heavy uniform, come see me and I'll put some more disinfectant on that. It's not healing very well."

He chuckled and nodded.

Suddenly, rifle fire sounded in the room she had just been in, making her and the other soldier jump and whip around. "You can't get a minute's rest around here," she hissed, turning and bolting down the stairs, taking two at a time.

"What were you expecting?" Kat called after her, but she didn't answer, "By the way, you look really nice!" Now there was no time to change. She would have to help people in a dress. Slipping between soldiers and upturned furniture, she burst into the small room she had been sharing with the nurses of the Aid Station and fumbled around for her helmet. She threw aside clothes and bedding until it finally came into view. Scooping it up, she crushed it over her head, which was made all the more difficult by the flower she had in her hair, and snatched up her medical kit.

The entire building shook and she barely managed to stay on her feet, crashing into the wall and knocking a painting from it. It fell to the wooden floorboards below, the glass shattering into a million tiny pieces. Everything beautiful was eventually destroyed in war.

"Medic!" a soldier screamed from outside. Emilie stumbled out of the room and ran down the narrow hall as best she could in heels. She couldn't risk taking them off, as she could step on glass or rubble. As soon as she reached the door leading outside, she took a split second to shove all fear aside. Now the only lives that mattered were those of the soldiers she was serving. She would lay down hers to save them. Swallowing and sucking in a deep breath, she stepped out onto the street, ducking aside to avoid the flying bullets. "Medic!" the soldier repeated, this time more desperate.

Following the sound of the plea, blinded by the sun in her eyes and choking on smoke, she somehow managed to find the wounded man and knelt down to examine his injury. He was bleeding heavily from the side, and upon closer inspection she realised with a sense of dread that a chunk of brick was lodged in it. "Okay," she breathed, ripping open her satchel and pulling out cloth, morphine and a clump of bandages. Using her small knife, she cut out the brick as best she could under the circumstances and held the cloth to the wound, which was now bleeding even more heavily. What a way to die: killed by a brick. She instantly scolded herself. He wasn't going to die. She wouldn't let him.

"You're going to be just fine," she promised, voice raised over the gunfire and explosions as she continued to tend to the wound, "I'm right here." When she looked over to the man's face, she was horrified to see his eyes were slowly flickering shut. She raised her hand and slapped him gently on the face, "Hey, hey, hey, mister, don't you go to sleep. Stay awake." She glanced up at the other soldier staring at the downed man in horror, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in shock. "Keep him awake," she ordered. But he didn't seem to hear her, blue eyes fixated on the gushing blood. She raised her voice sharply, "Soldier, keep your comrade awake, do you hear me? Do you want to bloody lose him?"

He started at the sound of her voice, and looked up at her, clearly struggling to form words. "There's… There's just so much blood," he whispered shakily, barely audible over the chaos around them. That made Emilie realise he was a new recruit, and this was most likely his first battle. Hell of a first time to fight. Eindhoven.

"And there'll be much more if you don't keep him awake!" she snapped. A strange calm washed over her as she looked back down and continued to attempt to stop the bleeding. Her hands were now dripping with the dark crimson liquid and her dress was completely ruined and already ripped, but she didn't stop working. She used one hand to inject morphine into the man's chest and wrapped the bandages around his side as best she could. It was an awkward and incredible difficult place to bandage, but she did her best.

"Get him out of here," she told the young soldier, who nodded weakly. He bent down and placed his hands under the man's armpits. "Gently," she murmured, rubbing the wounded soldier's wrist with her finger soothingly. That was when she realised something was wrong. "No, no, no!" she yelled desperately, pressing her index finger to the side of his neck, which was covered in scrapes.

"What's wrong?" the replacement asked, face twisted in fear. She thought he was going to faint at any moment.

Emilie began pumping his chest with both her hands, pressing her ear above his heart to listen for a beat. Nothing. "He has no pulse," she replied softly, but quickly her voice was hysteric once more until she was almost screaming, "Don't go giving up on me!" She breathed air into his lungs with her mouth, but still nothing. Emilie tried a few more times, before dropping back to the ground in defeat. "He's dead."

It was every doctor's worst nightmare: losing a patient. Most had trouble accepting the fact they were dead, and were haunted by their faces for the rest of their lives, sometimes being drawn to suicide in extreme cases. And she was just 20 years old – most didn't experience death for most of their lives. She felt a warm tear run down her cheek and drop onto her exposed knees. But she quickly wiped her eyes and clambered to her feet. Now was no time to cry. She had to be brave, and give her comrades strength, and seeing their supposedly fearless medic cry was not going to give them any hope.

So she sniffed, raised her head, and nodded to the soldier still crouched beside the corpse. "Thank you for your help," she struggled to keep her voice steady, a hard expression on her face. But she knew that her eyes betrayed her true emotions, "Now go and fight and do this man proud." She felt a sob rising in her throat at the fact that she didn't know his name, but pushed it back down.

When he didn't respond, she held out a hand and grasped his hand, pulling him to his feet; for a small thing, she was quite strong. She patted his shoulder and forced a smile she hoped was at least a little encouraging. "You're a soldier," she reminded him gently, straightening his crooked helmet, "Do your duty. You'll be fine."

She didn't know that. He could die, too, if she was too incompetent to save him. But he straightened, eyes glazed, and nodded. She could feel him quivering and squeezed his hand. And then he was gone, disappeared into the smoke, gun blazing as he fought to avenge his friend.

Not allowing herself to look down at the dead body, Emilie wiped her bloody hands on her dress and looked around for any more men in need of help, straining her hears to try and hear any screeches for a medic. Once or twice she almost responded to the Americans cries for help, before reminding herself whose side she was on. It killed her to ignore a plead for help, but she knew what she had to do. Their own medic would help them. Her gaze swept over a Yank cowering against a wall, eyes staring blankly ahead, but she forced herself to ignore him.

At that moment, a familiar Cajun accent roused her from her troubled thoughts. It sounded surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. But before she had time to look around for the American medic, an explosion swept her off her feet, sending her flying into a black grand piano that had been moved onto the street. The last thing she felt before everything went black was a surge of fear: what if she didn't awake before the battle was over and was taken prisoner by the enemy? Did they take medics prisoners? Would it really be such a terrible thing if she got to be around Eugene? _No, that's a stupid, traitorous idea._ And then an agonising aching at the back of her eyes, blurred vision and finally the relief of darkness.


	3. In The Beginning

"She's too young!" protested her father, staring wide-eyed at the crumpled letter in his hand.

Her mother continued to stir her tea, back turned to him. When she finally spoke, her voice was hard, and Emilie recognised the tone. When she got like that, there was no arguing with her. It seemed Emilie had inherited that. "It's her duty. I want her to do some good for her motherland, and more so I want a daughter I can be proud of."

The words cut through Emilie like a knife, and she barely refrained from cringing. She had been standing in the doorway to the living room for the past five minutes, having snuck downstairs when she heard her parents fighting. So far, it didn't seem like they had noticed her presence. Her father took a step towards his wife, looking desperate, "Helga, look at me, please. Let's just talk about this. You aren't thinking straight." He paused, letting out a sigh, "I know you'll regret this."

Helga shook her head, turning slowly to face her husband. Her voice was soft, but the determination and stubbornness was still evident in it, "Don't you want your daughter to be a hero, Thomas?" Her ice blue eyes bored into him.

"Don't I get a say in this?" Emilie stepped forward, making her father jump when he realised she had been standing there. Her mother's eyes flicked briefly to her daughter's face, before she went back to preparing her tea that seemed to be taking an awfully long time to prepare.

"Go back to your room, Emilie," she ordered, and that sent a wave of fury to surge through Emilie's veins. Wasn't her own mother even brave enough to face her? _Coward,_ she thought bitterly, wanting to say it aloud for a second before it occurred to her it would most likely only end up with her having a stinging red handprint on her cheek.

When she made no move of leaving, her mother let out a sigh, shoulders rising and falling. It seemed as though she had something more to say, but before she could continue, a little voice made them all tense.

"Lizzie?" Her baby brother asked, and when Emilie turned she saw him peering at the trio from around the corner, "Mama? Papa? You know I don't like it when you fight."

She saw her father swallow uneasily and cast his eyes to the floor. "We aren't fighting," he assured him weakly, and Emilie clenched her jaw. She was sick and tired of them constantly lying to Tobias and herself, "We're just talking like grownups. Don't worry."

Tobias shook his head. "That's not your talking voice," he insisted, making Emilie glow with pride at his unwillingness to be fooled, "That's your fighting voice."

Emilie knew her parents loved each other, but they had married when they were young, when her father had visited Germany for work when he was just 19 and she was 20. Now they were in their forties, and they fought almost every day. She suspected they would already be divorced if they didn't have two children to raise – not that they did much of that, anyway. From the day Tobias had been born, when she had been just seven years old, Emilie had taken it upon herself to care for her baby brother; feeding him, playing with him, reading him stories and even dressing him. She had been infatuated with him and still was, and he idolised her in return. Now he was ten and she was seventeen and it was still the same story.

Her father made no other move to argue, staring at Helga's back pleadingly, as though willing her to help comfort their son. But when she didn't turn round, only stared out the window into the overgrown back garden, Emilie muttered a curse to herself and placed a hand on her brother's shoulder. "C'mon," she guided him out of the room, pressing him to her side, "Let's leave 'em to it."

She had intended on taking him back up to his room to play, but he wouldn't have a bar of it. So instead she let Tobias stay in her room, giving him a short book to read and ruffling his hair before walking back downstairs.

"Lizzie?" he called just before she reached the door leading back out into the upstairs hallway.

She turned, smiling at him with one hand on the doorframe. "Yeah, my main man?"

"I love you," he told her simply before flicking open the book, leaning back on her pillow and beginning to read, eyes trailing over the page as he tried to decipher the words. It was in German, but he was already fluent in both English and Deutsch.

Emilie's heart swelled and her smile broadened. "I love you too. More than you can ever know."

But her good mood quickly faded as soon as she was back downstairs. It was as though the house was actually colder down there, and less sun shone in through the drawn floral curtains. Her mother and father were now on opposite sides of the room, her father slumped in a chair with his head in his hands and her mother sipping her tea at the small dining room table in the kitchen.

"I'm not joining the army," she announced as soon as she entered the room, leaning against the wall with her arms folded across her chest, as though challenging anyone to argue with her, "I want to go to university. You know that."

Helga didn't look up as she muttered, "This is more important, child."

"Like Hell it is!"

"Watch your language, Emilie. You would fit right in the army with that vulgar mouth of yours."

Emilie glared at her. "You just want to get rid of me," she almost spat, "Well, now I'm staying here until I'm fifty. How about that, huh?"

"I don't want to fight with you," Helga heaved another sigh, pressing her lips to the mug and closing her eyes. As though she expected that was the end of the conversation.

In a moment of blind fury, Emilie lashed out and knocked a small ceramic statue from the cabinet beside her. Her father's head snapped up but he remained silent. Helga only gave her a murderous glance, but also said nothing. That was just liked the rest of her childhood: being ignored. "Fine," Emilie's voice was now quiet as she fought to stay at least a little calm, a near impossible thought now. Before she even knew what she was saying, she told them, "Fine. You know what? I'm done with this. I'm leaving and… And…" She searched her mind for the first name that she thought of, "And moving to Australia!"

Her mother didn't react, as though she didn't believe her. As though this was just another one of her meaningless tantrums that was forgotten the next day. Well, forgotten by _them_, perhaps, but Emilie remembered every fight they had ever had. And it was infuriating.

"I'm doin' it," Emilie insisted, turning and bounding up the stairs which squeaked under her weight. Half of her hoped they would attempt to stop her, but another half realised this was what she wanted. And they could never say anything to prevent her doing it, anyway, "I'll be out of this place by dusk. Adios, Germany! We had a good run."

"Don't be so dramatic," her mother yelled after her, "Get back down here, Emilie Elizabeth Demont, or you won't have to leave. I'll throw you out of my house!"

"It's not just your house," she vaguely heard her father say softly, but her mother shushed him and he, of course, obeyed. It seemed as though Emilie was the only one actually brave enough to confront her. They called Hitler bad, but her mother put all the other tyrants to shame.

Momentarily forgetting her brother was still in her room, she barged in, slamming the door against the wall, and ripped her suitcase from her wooden wardrobe. She unzipped it, almost getting her skin caught in it as she did it in such a hurry, and began throwing the bear necessities in: dresses, stockings, socks, shoes, hats, jewellery, pants, shirts, skirts, books, a picture, a spare toothbrush and comb, until she had to stand on the bag in order to close it. Panting from the effort and the adrenaline pumping through her veins, she leaned against the door of the wardrobe and allowed herself to sink to her ground. That was when she saw Tobias staring at her quizzically, the book in one hand as he crouched on the end of her bed.

She could have sworn she felt her heart skip a beat as they stared at each other. Emilie, for once, hadn't even considered Tobias, hadn't even taken him into account. She couldn't leave him, her baby brother and best friend. He _needed_ her, or at least that was what she told herself. Her parents would ruin him. Maybe he wasn't as tough and persistent as her. Maybe they would break his spirit and crush his dreams, as they had tried to do so often with her. Maybe they would succeed.

All these thoughts spiralled through her head, and she forgot to breathe until her lungs began to ache and scream for oxygen. Emilie sucked in a shallow breath and slowly rose to her feet, a little unstable. "Um," she began, but before she could say anything more, Tobias slid off the bed and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

"I heard everything," he whispered into her clothes, "Please don't go," He looked up at her, green eyes huge and begging, like a lost puppy. Tears were beginning to glisten in their depths, and she felt her heart shatter in two, "Please don't leave me."

"I have to," she murmured, but she knew that wasn't true. She _wanted_ to. She was _choosing_ to abandon her baby brother. But it wasn't like that, she tried to tell herself, but still the intense guilt was crippling. Emilie closed her eyes, choking on her words as they spilled from her mouth, "But I'll still write you. Every day. And you can come and visit me, Tobi – I'll even pay for it when I get a job in Australia. You want to see the kangaroos, don't you? They're your favourite animal."

She trailed off as a tear slid down her cheek. She didn't want to let him see her crying, so crouched down and buried her face in his blonde hair, breathing in the familiar scent. He was nearly as tall as her, and somehow that was even more painful. "Oh, I'll miss you so much, Tobias," she continued when she thought she could speak, "Promise to send me letters, okay? And talk to me on the phone, just to tell me how school is going. Every boring little detail. I want to hear it," She looked up to face him, "Promise me."

Tobias nodded, brow furrowed and chin quivering as he fought to regain control. For some reason, that made her smile thinly. "I promise. And you, too. You have to tell me how boring University is, Lizzie."

Emilie laughed sadly, nodding. "I will. You have my word, little guy." She glanced over at her suitcase and felt her heart squeeze painfully. That was when she remembered the necklace hanging around her neck. It was a small, silver pendant of a dog that she had been given as a birthday present from one of her friends, and had never taken off. It was engraved with, _'for my darling Emilie. Friends forever.'_ Tobias had always loved it, playing with it whenever he was sitting next to her. Pausing, she raised her hands to the back of her neck and carefully pulled off the necklace, holding it in her hand for a second and gazing down at it before prying open her brother's hand and dropping the silver piece into it. "To remember me by," she explained gently, brushing a stray strand of her brother's crazy hair out of his eyes and tucking it behind his ear.

"Like I could ever forget you," He rolled his eyes but took it thankfully nevertheless, examining it for a few seconds. Then something seemed to pop into his mind, and he untangled himself from her hold, running from the room. She tracked his footsteps as he ran down the hall and into his bedroom. She heard him looking for something, before he reappeared a minute later, gripping his favourite soft toy with both his hands. It was a bluebird that he always had with him while he slept, ever since he was three years old. He held it out to her, but she, over-whelmed, shook her head.

"I can't take that from you," she protested, feeling bare without her necklace.

Tobias shook his head and walked towards her, shoving it into her arms. "I want you to have it."

Emilie took it, staring down at the little toy, with its beady black eyes and clawed feet and magnificently blue feathers. "Thank you," she whispered, at a loss for words, "This means so much, Tobi. I'll treasure it always."

That was when she realised the sun was already beginning to set. It couldn't already be time to leave. But, upon checking the clock, she saw it was nearly 6:00. And the last train left in just fifteen minutes. Time had flown, and she swallowed back a sob. She couldn't let Tobias see her cry. So, she rose, collected her suitcase, and swept her eyes around her room one more time. This might be the last time she ever saw it. But she had never been particularly attached to it, anyway, after so many bad memories of fighting had occurred there. Biting her bottom lip, she ushered her brother out of the room and closed the door behind them.

She struggled with the heavy bag as she walked down the steps, making Tobi walk behind her so she didn't accidentally trip and crush him. He offered to help, but she denied. She didn't need him hurting his back just as she was leaving him alone with their incompetent parents that never let them go to the doctors because it cost too much money, despite the fact her father had a high-paying job and her mother was a secretary.

Her mother and father looked genuinely surprised to see she actually was planning to leave. Thomas rose, staring at her with his mouth partially open in shock. Helga raised her eyebrows. Emilie briefly thought about hugging them, but shoved the idea roughly aside. Instead, she turned to her brother and pulled him into a tight embrace. "Be good for your parents," she told him softly, making sure her voice was just loud enough for her mother and father to hear her say _'your'_ parents, instead of _'our'_. Her mother stiffened, but made no move to correct her.

And then she was gone, out the door, with one last look at her family before the door was slammed in her face. They didn't even offer her money, not that she would have taken it. Her father stepped forward to place a hand on her brother's head awkwardly, and she felt her heart plummet. All she could do was hope he would be okay without her to protect him. The cold air buffeted her hair, and her muscles ached from carrying her bag, and she had only been doing that for a few minutes. The last of the sun's rays were just visible over the tops of the houses, and the lights were now shining in every home through the windows. _Goodbye_, she thought to herself, lowering her head and walking briskly from her house of nearly 18 years. If she looked back, she guessed she would have seen her brother watching her wistfully from the front window, but she didn't glance back.

Only when she was sure no one could see her crumbling did she allow the tears to fall.


	4. And I've Fallen Out Of Grace

Emilie awoke and the battle was still raging all around her. Her ears were ringing and her whole body hurt, and she lay dazed for a few seconds, just staring up at the sky that was barely visible through the thick layer of smoke that hung in the air. But then something in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she snapped her head around, wincing as the sudden movement sent a sharp pain down her spine.

The building that had been their man point of operation while in Eindhoven had been half-destroyed; clearly, a grenade had been thrown in there while she had been unconscious. Without a second thought, she clambered to her feet, nearly toppling over and having to use the piano for support, and rushed towards the building. A bullet whizzed by her ear, scarcely missing her, but she didn't stop moving. It was reckless and stupid, but that was what she had signed up for. Well, more like what she had been dragged into. But now it was her responsibility. And her friends might be dead because she hadn't been paying attention and had allowed herself to be knocked out. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

She reached the partially collapsed building, dropping to her hands and knees as more shots were fired around her and hurrying in as fast as she could on all fours. It was awkward, but it worked, despite the fact her exposed knees were now grazed and oozing blood. But she hardly felt it. Because what she saw, lying on the steps with a large chunk of his head missing, made her stop n her tracks and pushed every other thought from her head.

Kat was draped across the stairs, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling with his hazel eyes glazed over, gun held loosely in one hand. A large pool of blood dripped down the steps, and there was a large gash in his stomach where his vital organs were spilling out like spaghetti. His face was covered in soot and blood, but that didn't stop her from seeing the fear evident on it, even in death.

"No, no, no," she whispered, gaping at the scene before her, "_No!_" She rushed forward and crumpled down beside his unmoving body, though she knew there was nothing she could do for him. When she touched a hand to his cheek, it was cold, and she realised he must have been dead for a while now. Flies were already beginning to gather around his corpse, and she slapped them away desperately. "No," she choked out again, reaching forward and gently closing his eyes. She had to keep her hands busy. "Good bye, my friend," she whispered in German, inaudible above the fighting outside, "You will always be remembered."

With that, she stood, almost unable to believe what she had just seen. But she had to believe it. This was war. She made her way upstairs, having to leap over the holes in the stairs, and found many more bodies scattered around the room. Her CO had his back turned to her, staring around the room with his eyes narrowed in thought. Their best sniper was splayed out on the floor, beside the only other medic in the regiment. She had to look away. It was already beginning to reek of death – a smell she knew would stick to her skin forever, no matter how many times she showered.

Emilie knew there was no point in examining their bodies; she could tell in her heart they were already long gone. The other medic had always slightly annoyed her, but he was really the only person she had been able to talk to about what she went through. He was the only one that had understood what it was like to be a medic in a war like this one.

"Sir," she began weakly, clearing her throat and trying again more strongly, straightening and raising her head, one hand clutching her medicine bag to stop her fingers from shaking, "Sir, are you alright?"

He didn't reply at first, long enough to make her think he hadn't heard her. But then he turned and nodded stiffly. "I'm fine," he replied, voice cold and emotionless, "Come." He brushed past her and hurried down the stairs. He began shouting orders in German at the soldiers in the vicinity, screaming that they were holding back and that they were not to show any mercy to the invaders, because the Americans hadn't shown any mercy to them and now their comrades were dead. "Kill them all if they don't retreat!"

The Germans let out a determined cry. That was when Emilie noticed the British tanks, ablaze and destroyed. _We're winning,_ she realised, and felt hope flare inside of her. They might actually win this thing. She instantly Chastised herself. She would help the Germans, but she didn't want them to win. She didn't want Hitler to win. No more had to die. She almost laughed at herself. Of course more would die.

Eventually, the Americans were forced to retreat, unable to defend themselves against the Germans fuelled by the loss of their comrades which had become closer than family over the past few years. As they ran to avoid the bullets, Emilie strained to catch a glimpse of a white sash on a soldier's arm, wanting to make sure Eugene hadn't been killed. As soon as she spotted him at the rear, she let out a breath she hadn't even realised she had been holding.

Still struggling with grief over her men's deaths and a minor concussion she had received in the fall, Emilie made the rounds and administered care where it was needed, telling each soldier they were heroes so many times the word began to lose meaning. But she had to keep up morale, especially after this win that felt more like a loss. Luckily, there were no serious injuries, though she did have to set one dislocated shoulder and one man had had two teeth knocked straight out of his mouth.

By the time she was finished, the sun was setting. The sky was a brilliant orange, dotted with dark grey clouds. Anything in the distance was now a mere silhouette. "You'll be fine," she told the last soldier, helping him to his feet and offering him a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "Go get something to eat. You did very well today, Braukhoff. You should be proud."

"I may have done well," he replied, scraping some dried blood from his fingertips, "But that didn't stop my friends from being killed, did it?"

Emilie didn't reply, swallowing with some difficulty as she felt that familiar lump growing in her throat. She patted him on the back and shooed him away. As soon as everyone else had headed off the house where their CO was giving a congratulatory speech – she didn't want to hear it again – she sunk down onto a bench and stared into the distance, head resting in her hands. She remembered the chocolate bar she had been carrying in her dress pocket and fumbled for it, unwrapping it and taking a small bite. It was melted and sticky. She wasn't hungry, but knew she had to keep up her strength. Not for herself, but for the soldiers.

That was when the tears began to sting her eyes. What was she really doing for the soldiers? She hadn't managed to save a single one. She was a failure, but not only in the war. She had failed her family, failed her little brother, failed her entire _country_. Nothing had gone right and everything was falling apart. A sob shook her shoulders. It hurt. It hurt so much, to see a man die right in front of her eyes and not be able to do anything about it. If she could bargain with the Grim Reaper, she would, but he would probably just laugh at her. She was a joke. As a child, she had had such dreams, such expectations for herself. Now look at her: filthy, bloody, crying in a destroyed city in the middle of a strange land. It was a disgrace. _She_ was a disgrace. That familiar self-loathing nagged at her soul.

At that moment, a yell sounded from a barn a little way away. She looked up, but could see nothing; glancing to the building where the other soldiers were gathered, she supposed they couldn't have heard the yell. Emilie frowned and used one hand to push herself to her feet, rubbing an arm across her eyes to wipe away the tears. She walked slowly forward, feeling naked without the small blade she usually kept at her side (medics were only permitted a shot gun and a knife). Now all she had to fight off an enemy was a half-eaten chocolate bar.

She paused at the entrance to the bar, the world swaying around her due to her fading concussion, but she pushed past it. She would have told anyone else to go and lie down, that they would feel better after a night's rest. But though she was exhausted every minute of every day, she couldn't imagine sleeping.

"Come out," a German soldier was calling in Deutsch from inside the barn as Emilie pressed her ear to the thin, wooden wall, "Come out now and nothing will happen. Hello? Is anyone there?" When no one replied, he seemed to give up, and Emilie heard him making his way to the barn door. But then something clattered deeper inside, and she heard him stop dead and spin around.

Then the unmistakable sound of fighting hit her ears. "Hilfe!" the man yelled, "American soldier!" Emilie's eyes widened. A few moments later, she heard the man cry out, and then silence. _Please don't let him be dead,_ she thought to herself, touching a finger to the small cross dangling from around her wrist, _I've had enough death for today. O Lord._

Just as she had mustered up the courage and was about to enter the barn, two shapes appeared. As soon as they saw her, the larger one jumped back in obvious surprise, pushing the smaller person, a woman, behind him protectively. But he seemed to relax as soon as he saw it was a woman that had spotted them.

"What are you doing here?" she asked bluntly, trying to keep the confusion out of her voice. They weren't American soldiers.

Neither of them replied, just continued to stare at her in fear. "What are you doing here?" she repeated, more irritably. She wasn't in the mood for this now, especially if their presence threatened her soldiers.

"We live here," the girl finally spoke up in German, though the man tried to silence her as soon as she said a word. But she just glanced at him as if to say 'it's okay' and took a small step forward, skirting around him. She continued, "My father and I took shelter in this barn as soon as the fighting began. Surely you won't hurt us for hiding on our own property."

Her father looked at her sharply. "Eileen, let me handle this."

Emilie looked from one to the other, silence gripping them all for a few moments until she finally shrugged. "We don't hurt civilians," she told them, voice softer than before, feeling a little guilty, "Please, if you have somewhere else to go until we have left, I'll make sure no one stops you from getting there."

"Thank you," The man stepped forward and grasped her hand in his larger ones, kissing them gently, "Thank you. We are truly blessed to have run into you and not one of the… others."

She stiffened, briefly wanting to defend the German army, but she quickly reconsidered. He was right. Anyone else would most likely have shot and asked questions later. Not that they could be blamed for that, exactly. That's how they were trained to react. Emilie dipped her head, "It's the least I could do for the trouble, sir. Good luck."

The two people smiled at her gratefully, if not a little uncertainly, before hurrying away, looking back only once to make sure it wasn't a trick of some sort. She simply waved at them.

As soon as they disappeared from sight, she ducked into the barn – it was better to be safe than sorry, and she wouldn't leave an ambush of American soldiers waiting in the barn just because she didn't check it. At first, she thought there was nothing in there. It was dark, and hard to see anything. But as she walked forwards, she nearly tripped over the body lying in front of her on the ground. She bit her tongue to stop herself from crying out in alarm, and shuffled forward to inspect the man. He was a German, Crichton, who had always been quite jumpy, and now he was dead, blood pooled around his head from where he had been stabbed right in the forehead.

She wanted to scream, but more in fury than in horror. How many more had to die? How many more wouldn't she be able to save? Emilie wanted to run after the two fleeing people and drag them back to the soldiers, but that was before she just caught a glimpse of moonlight hitting an eye. "Come out," she ordered in English, straightening from where she had been crouched beside the body. She looked around, feeling no fear, "Show yourself and stop hiding like a coward."

For a moment, no one moved, and the only sound was Emilie's breathing. But, finally, a tall man stepped out of the shadows, staring her straight in the eye. "I think 'coward' is a bit of a strong word," he protested in a thick Southern accent. Crichton had been right: there was an American soldier.

"You killed him!" she roared, charging forward until she was just inches from him, glaring up at him defiantly with one finger shoved in his face. He nudged her hand away, and she found she was quivering with anger.

"It was self-defence," he defended himself, voice calm. Then he seemed to detect her accent and perfect English, as he changed the subject, saying, "You aren't German. What are you doing here?"

Emilie curled her top lip in the beginning of a silent snarl. She was tired of explaining herself to these murdering scumbags. She was almost surprised by that. When had she begun hating the Yanks? A few hours ago she had been congratulating them on their victories. "I'm the German medic," she replied coldly, "And you just killed one of my men."

She saw him swallow uneasily, but his outer confidence didn't falter. "Look, I'm sorry," he insisted, speaking around the fat cigar that was secured between his lips, "But this is a God damn war. These things happen."

"Oh, so I suppose if I waltzed in and stabbed one of your guys, that would be fine? You would just say 'these things happen' and move on?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "You can try waltzing in," he replied calmly, "See how far you get."

She was just about to shoot back something sarcastic, most likely a threat of some sort, when she noticed he was bleeding from his left shoulder. Emilie inwardly cursed herself; her medical training wouldn't allow her to leave someone injured, even if they were the enemy – an enemy that had just murdered one of her soldiers in cold blood, no less. Sighing, she gestured to his shoulder, voice still gruff as she told him, "Let me have a look at that," When he hesitated, eyeing her suspiciously, she added irritably, voice now hushed, "Do you want to bleed to death? 'Cause I'll leave you here, mark my words, Yank."

He paused for a few more heartbeats, before finally nodding stiffly and walking backwards, facing her the entire time, to lower himself down onto a stack of hay. She followed; she had to stand in order to be able to properly see his wound, and the entire time he kept glancing over his shoulder at her, making her snap at him to sit still. "Have got a torch, a match, anything?" she asked, straining her eyes to see in the dark.

"Only this," He foraged in his pocket and drew out a tiny torch, barely a centimetre wide. She took it from him and fumbled for the switch, shining it on the wound. It looked as though someone – an amateur – had already attempted to clean and remove whatever it was that had been stuck in his flesh.

Emilie grumbled to herself, switching the poor excuse for a torch into her other hand as she searched for supplies in her bag slung around her shoulder. "Did you try to operate on yourself or something?" she asked, equipment slippery in her blood-stained hands, "Idiot."

"Hey, watch it. I can still take you, you know."

"Just answer the question."

She saw him clench his jaw as she applied disinfectant to the wound and dabbed at it with cloth, which was quickly soaked through with blood by the time she pulled it away. "Nah, it was the old guy who was in here with me," he grunted, clearly struggling to remain strong. Men. "You know, with the girl."

"Well, he did a shit job," she muttered, breaking off a piece of string with her hands and threading it through a needle. He chuckled at her comment, but it was cut short as she pierced the skin and began to stitch up the wound. He sucked in a sharp breath of pain, but made no other sound. Soldiers were trained to suffer silently – of course, that doesn't mean they always did that. In fact, the majority of them were the whiniest sons of bitches she had ever met. But she supposed they had good reason to complain. She briefly considered not giving him any morphine, thinking she needed to preserve her limited supplies, and that he deserved the agony anyway, but she couldn't even do that. As she continued to work, she thought talking might take his mind off the pain. Awkwardly, she asked, "So, what's your name? Or is that classified information?"

He snorted in amusement. "Denver Randleman, miss. But everyone calls me Bull."

Emilie clicked her fingers as something popped into her mind, "Right, right. Hey, I remember you. You were the one in that ditch, with the tiger tank right on your ass," She chuckled lightly, despite herself, "Congrats on surviving that."

Bull was about to shrug, but she applied pressure to his opposite shoulder to remind him to sit still. "We're pretty hard to kill," he replied, shifting slightly when he was getting the beginning of a dead leg, "So, what's your name, sweetheart?" He put on his worst Australian accent, "Or is that classified information?"

She rolled her eyes, pushing down a little more than necessary with the needle and making him grunt. "First off, call me sweetheart again and I'll pierce your artery," She felt him stiffen slightly and couldn't stifle a small giggle, which made her cringe at the girley sound, "Remember that Emilie Demont told you that."

"Feisty."

"You bet your ass I am."

As she was fixing him, her eyes wandered to his left arm, and she stopped working for a second, eyes wide. "You're a paratrooper!" she exclaimed, unable to conceal that excitement in her voice. She cleared her throat, collecting herself before speaking again, "I'm impressed."

He seemed to beam with pride, and he nodded. "That I am."

Emilie went back to work, but remained impressed. She had heard rumours about them a few years back, when the war first started, but hadn't been able to believe it. When she had learnt it was a fact, she had been somewhat in awe of the soldiers that jumped right into the middle of the enemy. That meant Eugene was a paratrooper. He just kept getting better. Well, apart from the fact he was the enemy.

They settled in to a silence, with the exception of Bull's occasional cusses under his breath and Emile's muttering while she worked. It only took a few minutes for Emilie to finish stitching it up, and she drizzled some alcohol over it. Patting him on the shoulder, she told him with a smirk, "Now, don't go lifting weights or boxing or whatever the hell it is you men do. At least for a few days."

"Oh, I know better than to wrestle with my C.O. Snapped a man's vertebrae once, back at training camp," Emilie's eyebrows shot up in surprise, stepping back as he turned his head as best he could to inspect her work. He stood and glanced at her, "Thanks a bunch, Emilie."

"Don't mention it," She shrugged, offered a small smile, and began to pick up the supplies she had discarded, stuffing them back in her bag. As she was crouched down, she looked over and saw Bull pulling the corpse of the German soldier over to a corner and covering the body in straw. Emilie rose, eyes hooded, and wandered slowly over to him, looking down at the dead body sorrowfully. Her voice was sad as she reprimanded him half-heartedly, "I told you not to do any heavy-lifting just a few seconds ago. Are you always this forgetful?"

Bull didn't reply, glancing sideways at her. "I'm sorry," he told her again.

She shook her head, licking her cracked lips and turning away. "Yeah," She was silent for a moment, staring out at the night through the barn doors. They would be on the move again soon. Emilie didn't look back as she spoke, pointing over to where a tank was still burning, illuminating its surroundings, "See over there? There's a place you can hide until we leave. Stay in here and a patrol will find you."

Emilie heard the small stones crunch under his boots as he walked towards her, standing beside her and following her gaze. "Why should I trust you?" He asked, not looking at her as he continued to chew on his cigar she was sure must be nothing but slop by now, "How do I know ya won't turn me into the Krauts the second I get into the open? And… Well, the question I can't get over is why the hell you would wanna help me. Are you right in the brain?"

She laughed softly, smoothing her ruined dress subconsciously. She hadn't even realised her hands had stopped shaking, though, looking back, she realised they must have calmed down a while ago if she was able to stitch him up successfully. "I'm probably not right in the brain, no. I love my birth country," she answered softly, "I really do. But that doesn't mean I want them to win this damn war. That would be disastrous for the whole world. So that, Bull, is why I'm helping you."

She left out the part about the fact he was from the same regiment as Eugene.

Bull nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. They were silent for a few more seconds before he turned on his heel and extended his hand, the opposite arm to the injured one, which he kept close to his body. Hesitating briefly, she took it and shook, offering a small smile. "Stay safe. I don't want to read in the papers that a Yank named Randleman was killed in Europe."

"You too, Demont." He nodded, collected his gun with the bloodied bayonet, and left, disappearing into the darkness with his head darting from side to side. She watched him until he ducked into the place she had told him about. She should feel good about helping him. She had done a good deed, and possibly made a valuable ally in the American Army. And yet she couldn't help feeling like a traitor.

There's this feeling when you're grieving, like you'll never be happy again. You just can't imagine it; the world seems to be in shades of black and white, even when the sun is shining and the flowers are blooming. You feel so heavy, as though the Earth is pulling you under, and there's a feeling in the depths of your gut, like rats are gnawing at your stomach. Your eyes ache and your brain is throbbing, yet you feel almost numb. Things that would usually be horrible dull in severity. Your chin is always threatening to quiver and the tears always prick at your skin, but you try to fight it away, try to remain strong. But you know it's a hopeless battle. You see people passing you in the street, and you can't help but imagine their lives in front of them – growing old, dying all alone, crying out for help that never comes. When you're grieving, you're cursed, empty, inside a bubble locked away from the rest of the world. You can't help but resent all the smiling faces. What do they have to be happy about?


	5. Missing A Home You Hate

_Flashback _

_January 7, 1941_

The boat trip from Germany to Australia was long. _Very_ long. It seemed, to Emilie, that it was a little too long for a trip she had taken before; she hadn't remembered it being this nauseating. She had spent the majority of her time in Australia, travelling back and forth between it and Germany, the country she had been born in, every year. Only when she was 15, two years ago, had her family decided to stay in Berlin for good. Well, it was more like her mother had decided, her father had caved, and she and her brother were dragged along. But it was all the same in Helga's eyes.

Anyway. She had always been independent and strong, never wanting to admit she needed help, but when she had been younger, trapped on a boat, she had grudgingly told herself to stay close to her mother. Because, as cruel as her mother was, no one dared get on the wrong side of her, even the toughest, biggest man, and a redeeming quality about her was that she protected her children as fiercely as a lioness defends her cubs. Even if she did ignore them the rest of the time.

But now Emilie was all alone, confined to a boat, unable to run from anyone. The first day, she had been up on deck, resting on the metal railing while she stared out to the horizon across the crashing waves, focusing on not throwing up. A drunken older man had stumbled over and slung an arm around her shoulders, warm breath stinking of alcohol and making her skin crawl as he slurred, "Hey, beautiful."

She had elbowed him hard in the stomach and he hadn't bothered her again.

Now Emilie lay on her back on her tiny bed; she had originally had to share the small, white room with another woman, but as soon as Emilie had begun complaining about her family and why she was going to Australia, the other woman, Margaret or something, had run to the captain and pleaded for a room change. She had gotten her wish, and now Emilie was all alone. Now that she minded much. Though she was lonely and home-sick at times, she still preferred to lock herself away inside her herself and not talk to anyone. She wouldn't have ranted to the woman on any other day, but now she was hurting more than usual and needed someone to talk to, no matter who it was. She would have spoken to a rat if it had shown up in her cabin at that point.

Emilie went for hours without eating, only getting up to open the door for one of the crew when they knocked to give her a plate of food, and she would mumble a thank you before slamming the door shut once more. She would pick at the food, but it always tasted funny. Not as good as the freshly cooked food at home… She shoved the thought from her mind as soon as it appeared. She thought of everything, yet she thought of nothing.

She hadn't changed clothes in over a day and a half now, nor had she brushed her teeth or even combed her hair. She got to a point where she felt so sick – either from the sea-sickness, lack of sustenance, sadness, or a combination of all three – that she couldn't even get up to open the door, and the crew had to open the door themselves with the key they carried on a large bronze ring. They had said she had no colour in her face and her eyes were bloodshot; she hadn't even realised she hadn't slept. Everything felt surreal. They told her to go see a doctor as soon as they landed in Australia.

Finally, after Emilie had lost all track of time and she could have been on the boat for 100 years for all she knew, the metal creaked and groaned and finally the ship came to a stop. But even then she didn't get up. In fact, she very well could have been forgotten had it not been for a maid that came around to clean the rooms, and received quite a surprise when she saw Emilie sitting on her bed, legs crossed, back pressed against the cool wall and head angled to stare at the ceiling. The lights were off in the room.

She was ushered out, and stumbled off the boat; after being bed-ridden for so long, she had almost forgotten how to move her legs. The first thing she did once she stepped onto dry land was throw up. Not eating didn't agree with her.

As Emilie hadn't made any arrangements before her spur-of-the-moment trip, she was left relying on the generosity of her friends who lived permanently Down Under. She had never gotten on very well with her aunt, who also lived there, so she was out of the question for accommodation. After going down the list of friends, and being turned away most of the time (she reminded herself to 'lose their addresses'), she finally found someone, a recently-divorced family friend, kind enough to give her a room. Maybe they had been able to see the tears that were lurking just behind Emilie's eyes; at that point it was dark, cold, and she was getting pretty damn desperate. Or maybe she was just lonely and in need of some company, no matter who it was.

Audrey didn't ask any questions, only smiled and helped Emilie with her bags. She must have already been asleep, as she was wearing her nightgown, and Emilie felt a brief flash of guilt that only added to how crappy she was already feeling. Inside it was warm and bright, a fire crackling and dancing in the living room. Lying on its side in front of the fire was a large German Shepherd that look up when Emilie entered, ears pricking and eyes wide with curiosity.

Emilie looked up when she felt Audrey place a hand lightly on her shoulder. She was eyeing her with obvious concern.

"I, um…" Emilie let out a small laugh, shaking her head and wiping her eyes, "Thank you so much for doing this. I must look like a wreck. I won't stay here for long."

When Audrey spoke, Emilie took a second to realise how odd it was to hear another Australian accent. And she found she missed the German voices she had become accustomed to. But there was no time to dwell on that now. "Nonsense," Audrey insisted, face kind and sympathetic, "You stay here as long as you need." She turned on her heel, glancing back in front of the door that lead to the kitchen, "Now that I'm up, would you like a cup of tea? It might make you feel better."

Emilie offered a thin smile, but shook her head, dropping her bags on the ground and walking over to the dog. The name on his collar read _Clarence_. She crouched down and held her hand in front of his nose so he could get used to her scent; he sniffed at it for a few moments, before flopping his head back down on the carpet with a groan. She ran her hand between his soft black ears, not looking up as she answered, "No, thank you. I think I'll just go to bed. Sorry again."

"Stop apologising or I'll throw you out," Audrey smiled warmly, "Come on, I'll show you to the guest bedroom." She clicked her tongue and Clarence raised his head, scrambling to his paws and trotting over to her, bushy tail wagging slightly. Then she picked up Emilie's bags, despite her protests, and lead her up the stairs.

She stopped at a door at the end of the hall, swinging it open while it creaked the entire time. The room was small, one wall completely lined with books, giving the space that old book smell you can only achieve in a library or second-hand bookstore. Against the opposite wall was a single bed, with a bedside table beside it and a lamp sitting on that. In the corner was a wardrobe, and only one painting hung over the bed. It was simple and depressingly under-furnished, but it would do. Emilie couldn't afford to be picky.

Giving Audrey a thank you hug (though it seemed Emilie just wanted the comfort of another's touch more than anything) she took the bags from her, almost forgetting how heavy they were and marvelling at how Audrey hadn't complained once while carrying them, and backed into the room, shutting the door behind her. Clarence remained in the room with her, leaping onto the foot of the bed and quickly making a place for himself, watching Emilie through deep, soft brown eyes the entire time.

Emilie felt her way towards the lamp, narrowly avoiding tripping over the bags, and flicked it on; it wasn't very bright, barely managing to fight away the shadows that threatened to claim the room. The full moon that shone through the open window was the only other source of light. Emilie walked towards the window and pushed it open a little more, which was quite difficult considering how much the wood stuck and she ended up having to use both hands. But she got it done, and stuck her head out into the warm night air. She had dressed for winter, forgetting the seasons were the opposite in Australia; she hated hot weather.

Most of the houses below were all dark and quiet. Everyone else was asleep, save for a lone dog that howled somewhere in the distance. Emilie felt a prickle of doubt tug at her heart, but shoved it away. And yet she couldn't get one question out of her head no matter how hard she tried: What was she doing here?


	6. No Rest For The Wicked

_A/N: Thank you so much to everyone that has been keeping up with this story! I'm so sorry this update is late, but I hope it's okay aha. Also, I feel I should apologise for all the mistakes in the last few chapters. And something that has really been bugging me is that, in one of them, I said how medics were only permitted to carry shotguns. Blah that was a stupid mistake I made. It's actually meant to say handgun. But, oh well._

_I hope you enjoy this chapter (it was written late at night so pardon any mistakes, yo! Oh, and sorry they're so short), and that you're catching onto the pattern: every second chapter will be a flashback, leading up to her participation in the Brecourt Manor battle with Easy Company. Yeah, I realise this has some major mistakes, because the same German company didn't fight all those battles, but just bear with me, guys. Ahaha. Reviews are awesome, and I'll take the TARDIS, travel back in time, and bring you a cookie baked by Easy Company as a reward. (;_

_I don't own anything in these stories but Emilie and the fake German soldiers I've created._

_xx_

_Present day_

The news of the SS soldiers that had been defeated at a crossroads in Holland spread like wildfire. When it reached Emilie's company, it was met by complete silence. No one could believe it. No one could believe they could have lost. She could feel the hope in the room diminishing by the second, at an alarming rate. Finally, the soldiers reluctantly went back to their meal, though their conversations were significantly less cheerful.

Emilie sat away from the others, picking at her meal, if it could even be called that. The things they were given to eat in the army was an insult to food, and she had begun craving sandwiches a few days ago. Such a simple craving, yet she vowed to never take them for granted again when she got out of this war. _When._ She almost laughed at her optimism. The best she could hope for was _if _she got out of his war, and, at that time, it seemed as though the only way she might get out was in a body bag.

She could hardly taste the food, which was probably a good thing, so pushed it irritably away. The memory of how Kat was the only one ever brave enough to eat with her flashed in her mind, but she pushed it away. She couldn't allow herself to think about that, to grieve. She had to remain strong, if not for herself, then for her company, for her little brother.

"An order has just come through."

Emilie recognised the voice of her C.O. Everyone else in the room stood to attention, and she saw a few of them shoot her a questioning glance when she was the last one to stand up, taking her time. The chair she was sitting in scraped noisily against the hard ground but she didn't care. When the C.O glared at her, she simply smiled back at him, finally standing straight, though a smirk still played at her lips.

Her C.O began to speak, walking down the line of soldiers. "Der Führer has ordered a counterattack on the small town of Bastogne in Belgium," he announced, heels clicking as he walked, gaze sweeping over each soldier's face, "His objective is to achieve complete surprise, to strike before the Allies have a chance to properly prepare." He stopped in front of Emilie, staring her straight in the eye as she winked back at him teasingly, "He has chosen us to fight alongside the SS. This is a great honour, soldiers. Do not let him down."

He turned back to the men. "Finish your meal. We leave tonight." With that, he clicked his shoe on the ground and stalked out of the room, the soldiers saluting sharply as he went, Emilie included.

As soon as he left, the room exploded with chatter:

"Tonight? This is ridiculous! We've barely recovered from Eindhoven!"

"The SS – can you believe it? Hitler hand-picked _us_."

"Do you think we'll get medals for this?"

"I hate snow."

Emilie remained silent, sitting back down. A replacement medic still had not arrived, meaning she would be the sole medic in this battle. She could feel the stress building in her, until finally she couldn't bear it any longer. She lashed out with one hand and sent the half-eaten plate of food in front of her flying against the wall. It shattered and fell to the ground, loud enough to startle all the soldiers in the room. They instinctively reached for their guns, but upon seeing Emilie had been the cause of it, merely exchanged confused glances and shrugs.

She just stood there, avoiding eye contact, chest heaving as she fought for breath. Where was her nurse training when she needed it, when she needed to remain calm? Why was it only there at the most inconvenient of times? She could hear the soldiers whispering to each other, but didn't look up.

"Miss Demont?" She tensed as a voice sounded nervously behind her, using the same name Eugene had called her by. Eugene. Why was he always on her mind? "Miss, a-are you alright?"

That was when she truly realised what she was doing. She was appearing weak in front of her company. So she sucked in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and nodded. When she flicked her eyes open once more, she raised her head and swallowed, forcing what she hoped was a convincing smile. "Yes. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," she assured him, running a hand through her hair she had barely managed to brush that morning, "Just… Well, I have a lot on my mind, Bachmeier. Guess I'm not handling it as well as the rest of you."

For some reason, every time she used their names, the soldiers looked surprised. Most likely because she knew their names, even if she had never spoken to them. She didn't know why she did it, but she only ever called them by their last names. Probably because she didn't want to get attached. Well, look how well that had worked with Kat.

Bachmeier nodded, offering a small smile. She could almost swear she saw a blush forming on his face, and remembered with an inward chuckle the conversation she had overheard when she had first met her company: who could score a date with her first. Eichmann - tall, blonde, good-looking, notorious for his womanizing skills – had been the favourite, but Emilie had turned him down every time, which only seemed to make him more eager. She hated men like that, that viewed women as play things.

Eichmann had been killed at Brécourt Manor just a few weeks ago.

Emilie grimaced at the thought, making Bachmeier frown, but she didn't give him time to ask any questions. "We need to go prepare to leave," she told him softly, flashing him a smile of assurance that she really was okay. Yet another lie.

He nodded again, clicking his heel and walking back to the other soldiers who had been peering at them intently; they began bombarding him with questions and slapping him on the back, laughing. Everyone tip-toed around Emilie, preferring to gossip about her behind her back or when they thought she wasn't listening. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because she was a woman, or a medic, or simply because they could sense she was the equivalent of a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any moment. Or maybe it was a combination of all three. Though she was often grateful she had time to herself, she found she was lonely, wanting someone to talk to. Wishful thinking.

From then on, everything happened in a rush as soldiers ran around, frantically trying to gather all the supplies they would need: ammo, food, winter clothing – enough to last them at least a month. Emilie stuffed all the medicine she could carry into the bag she already had, and collected two other bags for safe keeping. Anyone would think she was getting ready to run a hospital.

To add to all that extra weight, she also pulled on more layers of clothing, including a heavy wool greatcoat, with silver dimpled buttons so as not to reflect light, lined, waterproof boots, muffs, and a hooded waterproof parka. She looked awkward once she had it all on, but at least she would be warm. Only when she had it all on did she remember she had to display her medic sash, and had to take off all the extra layers, undo the sash, put everything back on, and put the sash back on. It barely fit now, and Emilie felt constricted, but she sucked it up. She walked as best she could over to her company, feeling somewhat like a penguin.

And that was it. They were going to Bastogne.


	7. Cold Down To Your Bones

_A/N: Now, I know this is where a flashback is supposed to be, but I've just been to in to writing the whole Bastogne thing that I've forgotten about that aha. But don't worry: I'll get to writing it soon, and upload them into the spaces they're supposed to be in – in between the present day chapters. I have so many ideas for them, too. Want a little spoiler for the next flashback? I'll be including a little hat-tip to 'The Pacific', featuring two certain Marines. CoughSledgeandSnafucough. (;_

_xx_

It was cold. But not any cold she had ever experienced before. She had once visited Scotland on holiday with her family. It had been snowing non-stop, but they had been inside, tucked under a blanket sipping tea in front of a fire, with music filling the room. This was different. It was a penetrating cold; it seeped into your bones, and just when you thought your body couldn't handle it anymore, somehow you pushed through, making way for a new freezing.

They had reached the Ardennes forest the day before, and had immediately set up their line. The men had jumped out onto the snow, some of the shorter men having it up to their knees as they struggled to push forward. The CO had helped hand out shovels and ordered each man to dig their foxhole.

The SS had arrived just a few hours before them, along with the 7th Army, a number of Panzer Divisions, and a few other regiments. With them they brought tanks and heavy artillery. They were still working to set them all up, and Emilie stood back, her hood covering her head and her hands stuffed into her pockets. Her breath was coming out in white clouds, where the warm air from her lungs met the freezing air.

She was still the only medic to her knowledge. About half an hour ago, a soldier in her regiment, Herrmann (she still found that ironic, with Herrmann translating to warrior or soldier in German), had come rushing over to her to alert her of another medic that had joined them. She had been over the moon, and had gone to meet him. But, upon talking to him – Hirsch was his name - she had discovered he was, in fact, merely a Hilfskrankentrager – they were regular soldiers with some basic first aid training, who, in combat, would drop their weapons and adopt the armband, helping their fallen comrades to some degree. Emilie hadn't been able to hide her disappointment.

It turned out that many of the medics of the other regiments had either been killed or evacuated due to injuries. Emilie looked around, biting her lower lip with such force she tasted blood. Around her were thousands upon thousands of soldiers. How could she possibly be expected to help them all?

"What in God's name is a woman doing on the line?" a booming voice behind her demanded.

She spun around, ready to snap back a response, but stopped when she saw who had spoken. Standing about ten feet away from her was General Josef 'Sepp' Dietrich, flanked by other high-ranking officers, including her CO. Without thinking, she snapped to attention, eyes wide. Before the war, he had been Hitler's bodyguard and chauffeur, and had been involved in the Night of Long Knives, the murder of Hitler's political opposition in 1934. Long story short, he was an SS General, and one of the most decorated and respected Nazis. She had only seen photos.

"Sir," she finally managed to choke out, clearing her throat and beginning again more strongly, having to raise her voice to be heard over the howling wind. He simply raised his eyebrows, waiting, "General. I'm Sergeant Emilie Demont, a medic." She let her gaze wander around her for a few seconds, before adding darkly, "Well, at the moment, I'm the _only_ medic, but you get the idea."

Much to her surprise, the General let out a loud, deep laugh, turning to the men behind him in turn, who smiled back tentatively, seemingly unsure of why he was laughing and whether or not they should join in. "A woman medic!" he exclaimed. He must have seen the malicious glare that she shot at him, because he continued, still chuckling, "Oh, I'm sorry, sergeant. I'm just a little… Well, shocked! This will be quite a story to tell der Führer." He let out a final chuckle, brushing snow from his overcoat, before nodding to her, "Good luck to you, Demont. You'll have quite a battle on your hands."

"Evidently," she replied dryly, "Under your command, I'm sure the Yanks will get one hell of a beating."

He shook a finger at her, grinning, "Oh, you can be sure of that. If it was stardom you were looking for, being involved in this fight was the way to go. We'll go down in history."

Her CO, still standing behind the General, looked a little alarmed, and shot an almost pleading look at Emilie. He was clearly afraid that she would pick a fight with the man, which she was on the verge of doing. Dietrich was saying all the wrong things. It wasn't 'stardom' she was seeking. She didn't even want to be here, but, since she was, she was going to help her men to the best of her ability. She didn't give a shit about being remembered in history. Actually, it might be better if she wasn't. Then future generations wouldn't have to read about all her failures.

But Emilie fought down the rage that was quickly filling her, and instead forced a tight-lipped smile, remaining silent so she wouldn't accidentally snarl at him.

Finally, Dietrich tipped his helmet and walked away, the other men trailing behind him like lost dogs. Before he disappeared into the white haze of snow, her CO turned back to her and gave her a stiff thank you nod. She lifted her middle finger in response, but, unfortunately, he had already turned away before he had a chance to see it.

Suddenly, without warning, the 88mm flak guns the Germans had been positioning along their line began firing at the forest in front of them where Emilie had been informed the Americans had set up their own line. Everyone around her almost leapt out of their skins, some going to the extent of flinging themselves to the ground, humiliated when they realised it was their own army that was firing. The guns, usually used as anti-aircraft guns, made such a noise that the whole ground vibrated around them, and Emilie thought for sure that her eardrums would burst. She grimaced every time they fired.

"We have to go through 90 minutes of this!" a soldier nearby screamed at the man beside him, who had his hands clamped over his ears.

_90 minutes? _Emilie stared at the forest just a few hundred metres from her. Even with the snow blurring her vision, she could see trees exploding and faintly hear men yelling. If this was what it looked like now, after just a few minutes of this barrage, what would be left of the forest in 90 minutes?

Finally, when the guns had become just a booming roar in the background accompanied by the screeches of wounded Americans, they stopped. The silence was deafening, and Emilie had never been so glad to greet it. No one spoke for a few moments, eyes flicking from the forest to the flak guns, as though making sure they wouldn't start up again.

When they didn't, another kind of roar filled the air, this time of cheering Germans. A number of them hugged each other, and Emilie couldn't work out whether they were cheering for the damage they had done to the Yanks, or simply because there was silence once more.

Before she had time to contemplate on it anymore, a soldier she didn't yet know ran over to her, hauled her up from where she had been seated on a log, and swept her into a tight embrace, twirling her around and around. When he finally put her down, she was so dizzy that it took everything in her not to topple to the ground. It took a few moments for the world to stop spinning around her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, still stumbling around. It reminded her of the first time she had ever had whiskey, illegally at a celebration. When she groggily opened her eyes once more, the soldier that had hugged her was nowhere to be seen.

_Well,_ she thought to herself amusedly, rubbing her eyes, _that was unexpected. _


	8. Sometimes I Welcome Surprises

_A/N: Sorry about this reaaaally long chapter aha. I just wanted to give Eugene and Emilie some reason to actually want to further their friendship; I've read some fics where the characters were in love by D-Day, but I wanted something more, something a bit real._

_Speaking of which! Thank you so much to everyone who has been following this fic. It means the world to me, and your reviews have actually made me grin like an idiot, I'm not ashamed to say. :D_

_So, once again, sorry about any mistakes (please tell me if you spot any!) and I don't own any of the characters except Emilie and the fake Germans I have created. _

_xx_

A few days had passed since the barrage on the American troops, and, so far, things were looking good for Germany. Only one man had been hit by an American sniper, but it had been a clean shot through his shoulder and Emilie had been able to patch it up easily. All the same, he wouldn't be fighting this one-sided battle anymore.

So it wasn't the other side they had to watch out for; it was the weather. Already two snowstorms had passed through the area. The officers saw it as a good thing, thinking this meant the Americans couldn't receive any assistance from their planes, but the men were suffering through every one of them. But still they could stay in their foxholes with blankets and their buddy's body heat to keep them warm. There was still a light restriction, so they weren't allowed fires, but they were coping nevertheless.

But Emilie didn't have that pleasure. She had gotten to the point where her teeth were chattering so hard she was scared she would chip a tooth and her jaw hurt. She was numb all over, but still her bones managed to ache; she was sure that if she looked in a mirror, her face would be completely blue. But the mirror would have been frozen anyway. So much for her winter clothing keeping her snug and cozy.

Yet she still forced herself to make the rounds of the troops. But she didn't just have to look after her own regiment; now she also had to care for the other divisions and the SS Panzer Divisions, though they were often too proud to accept her help. Even then, though her body was screaming at her to leave the morons behind to freeze, she would just fold her arms over her chest (which was hard with all the layers and made even more difficult because she was shaking so profusely, but she still tried to look intimidating) and wait, her gaze boring into the backs of their heads. She could have become a snowman with all the waiting she did in the falling snow.

Eventually, the men would find her presence so disconcerting that they would allow her to examine them just to get rid of her. In that case, she couldn't help the triumphant grin that spread across her face, though that was somewhat diminished by her chattering teeth she seemed to have no control of anymore. She would check their fingers and toes for frostbite, making the grumbling soldiers briefly remove their shoes and gloves in order to do so. At least they didn't have to worry about gangrene with their weather-proof boots.

"Hey," One of the SS soldiers spoke up as she inspected his hand, turning it over. It was icy cold to the touch, but not in any danger of falling off just yet, which was a relief. Emilie didn't look up, simply grunted. The man continued, leaning in, "If you ever need a way to warm up, I know the perfect way."

When she glanced up, he was waggling his eyebrows at her. She couldn't help the amused snort that flew from her nose, and he frowned, seemingly taken-aback. It was as though he had been expecting her to throw herself at him.

"I think I'll stick to blankets," she answered, pushing herself to her feet and brushing herself off, voice dripping with sarcasm and amusement, "But thanks for the offer. Hey, if I see any other gals, I'll send them your way." She clicked her tongue at him.

He gave her an embarrassed smile, having lost all his earlier confidence. Emilie let out another chuckle and patted him on the shoulder as she passed.

All around her, men were eating their k-rations in their foxholes, huddled together. They shoved the concrete-like biscuits into their mouth, obviously wanting to get them out of the way – Emilie couldn't blame them – before moving onto the tasty and more nutritious canned meat and tubes of Limburger cheese. Emilie's mouth watered at the sight, having not eaten all day.

She foraged around in her bag and pulled out her k-rations, shovelling the food into her mouth as she walked. She had wanted to be a vegetarian when she was younger, hating animal-cruelty, but when you're starving, you will eat anything, and suddenly the meat seemed like the best thing in the world.

Though Emilie was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to retire to her foxhole and lie down, she doubted she would sleep a wink. She just needed to walk. She just needed to do… something other than check hand after hand after hand.

Finishing off her pathetic meal that barely satiated her hunger, she glanced over her shoulder. No one was paying any attention to her. Now was her chance – that was her, always taking chances that usually backfired and ended up with someone being killed. But everything seemed quiet at the moment, so, with one last look, she walked briskly towards the portion of the eastern Bois Jacques forest the German army was holding.

Somewhere to her left, she could hear her soldiers singing loudly, most likely to irritate the Yanks, but also to keep themselves warm and their spirits high. Strangely, even with this freezing weather, morale was still high, and Emilie thanked God for that.

As she got further into the forest, she expected to be stopped and turned around by the soldiers that had claimed the area. But there was no one in sight – German or American. So she just wandered on, and she found that the weather was slightly more bearable under the cover of the trees. Before the war, she had always loved winter, and had looked forward to it every year; she despised summer. But now, she had no idea what she had been thinking. She craved the warm sunlight.

At that moment, movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she whipped her head around, searching. Lying on the ground about a yard away were a number of dead German soldiers, and she flinched inwardly at the sight. Their blood stained the white snow red, their glazed-over eyes staring blankly up at the sky. She didn't know them, as they weren't from her regiment, but still that familiar, crippling guilt tugged at her heart.

But the corpses weren't what had caught her attention. Standing over them, looking startled with his hands in his pockets and his chin nestled in his jacket, was Eugene Roe. She strained her eyes, not believing what she was seeing. What was he doing here? He turned and began to walk away, quickly as though trying to run from the image of the dead bodies, but before he could vanish into the woods, Emilie called out his name, not thinking. The wind almost carried away her voice, but he must have heard it nonetheless as he stopped abruptly and looked back.

_What the hell am I doing?_ "Gene," she called again, taking a step towards him. It took a moment for him to realise who it was, but he seemed to visibly relax as he remembered.

Taking that as a sign that it was safe to approach him, Emilie jogged forward, holding down her helmet with one hand. As soon as she stopped in front of him, she pulled off her helmet and held it under one arm, using the other hand to shake out her curly hair that she was sure must look like a bird's nest, especially after being stuck under that stuffy helmet for so long. "Hi," she greeted, surprised by how cheerful she sounded when just a few minutes she had been pessimistic and brooding, "What the hell are you doin' here?" _Nice, Emilie. Smooth greeting, really considerate. Way to make a friend._ Wait. She didn't want to make a friend of the American medic… Did she?

Eugene smiled slightly, though he looked more confused than anything. "Eisenhower called us in," he answered, "You guys took all of us by surprise, and we were the only ones nearby, restin' up and re-equipping."

"I didn't know we were fighting any paratroopers," she muttered, suddenly alarmed that Eugene, or any of his division, could be killed or wounded.

He shrugged. "Like I said, miss Demont, we were the only ones available."

She couldn't help the smile that spread across her face. "You remembered my name."

"I guess you could say I'm good with names," Eugene replied. Then he seemed to remember something, as he added quickly, a sense of urgency in his voice, "Hey, you don't happen to have a spare pair of scissors by any chance, do ya?"

Emilie was about to say no when she realised she was still carrying her bag around with her; she wore it so much that the 1.6 kilograms had started to feel like her own weight. She held up one finger, indicating for him to wait, while she searched her bag. He waited patiently, and, when she flicked her eyes up to his face, he was clearly hopeful. She found the pair of scissors beside her packet of 10 Natrium bicarbonic tablets and held them up, triumphant.

"I only have one pair, but you can have 'em."

Eugene was about to take them, but he stopped himself, shaking his head. "No, no. I couldn't take 'em from you if they're your only pair. I'll find some somewhere else. Thanks for the offer, ma'am."

"Don't be stupid, Gene. I can find another pair," She frowned, still holding the scissors out to him, "You Yanks are the ones who'll be needing all the equipment you can get, I'm sorry to say."

The American medic narrowed his eyes, seeming to remember that she was the enemy, but his face softened once more a heartbeat later. "Keep them. One of the other soldiers will have some in his aid kit."

"Okay, fine, I'll keep the goddamn scissors. God, you Americans are so difficult," she rolled her eyes though a crooked smile still played at her lips. That was when she realised she had been imitating his accent when he said 'scissors', and now he was looking at her pointedly. She searched his face for any sign of annoyance, or that he had taken offence, but there was nothing. Emilie let out a light laugh, "Sorry."

Eugene smiled, but it somehow looked sad, like a lost puppy that had been left out in the rain. Woah. Where did that come from? "It's fine," he assured her, a short, soft hum sounding in his throat. Damn, even his laugh was adorable. He glanced over his shoulder worriedly.

Emilie blinked, running her tongue over her lips to sooth the dry skin. She tasted a little blood, and remembered when she had bitten her lip a few days earlier. "Hey, if you need to get back to your men, just say so," she told him, smiling thinly, "You aren't a POW or anything."

He shook his head. "Good to know. I think they can last without me for a little while longer; the German's have been quiet so far today."

"And you can count on us being quiet for a few more hours," As soon as she had said it, she regretted it. Letting out a sigh, she shrugged, "God, you know, whenever I'm around you, I manage to screw up and say stuff about my army I shouldn't. Guess I'm still not used to the whole 'this shit is confidential, keep it quiet' thing. I would'a thought that after two years, I would be better."

The paratrooper eyed her sympathetically. "I'm not gonna say anything," he answered. Before she realised what was happening, they were walking, Emilie having to take bigger steps in order to keep up with his longer stride. They kept a respectable distance between them, but they still walked side-by-side, staring at the snow-covered ground in front of them. "You joined the army two years ago?"

"Drafted," she corrected, her voice coming out more harshly than she had anticipated. It was just a sensitive topic for her. She glanced at him, continuing when her voice was back to normal, "I was drafted, I didn't join voluntarily. You know, 'all true Arians return to the motherland'. But, yeah." She paused, frowning, "Wow, two years ago. I didn't really realise it had been that long. I, um, I went through normal military training in terms of all the exercise, and I was in basic weapons school, but after that I was sent to a special course for medics for six months where we learnt a little self-defence. Let me tell you, that was a ball of laughs." She finished sarcastically, adding with a mischievous edge to her tone, "But, hey, at least I got to flip over any of the guys that pissed me off." _Which was basically everyone._

He nodded. "Same story here, but, on top of that, I went through paratrooper training. Only a third of all the men that signed up for it actually made it through."

"Jeez," she breathed, raising her eyebrows, impressed. Her respect for Eugene just grew even more.

Somewhere in the distance, a German fired a shot of their rifle, and both of them tensed, stopping dead to listen. But when no one screamed for a medic, their muscles relaxed and they continued on. It was silent, but, for some reason, it wasn't awkward. Emilie felt strangely comfortable around him, something she couldn't describe even if she tried – and she had been trying to.

Then something occurred to her. "Gene," she broke the silence and he glanced at her. She felt a little flustered by the intensity of his gaze, which was a new feeling. She was usually so self-assured, at least on the surface when inside she was crumbling apart. "If you don't mind my asking, why isn't anyone around here? Shouldn't there be soldiers up on the line? Anyone could wander through here."

She saw Eugene swallow, as he answered quietly, "We're stretched too damn thin." His eyes flicked to her, and she knew what he was silently asking.

"Hey, what we say here is just between us," she murmured, "You can trust me, even if I am a Kraut."

They locked eyes, as though Eugene was looking for any sign that she was lying in her eyes. She stared calmly back at him, even though she felt anything but calm on the inside. Goosebumps ran up her arms and tingled her spine, but for once it wasn't from the cold; it was like he could read her soul. And though she usually preferred to close herself off, she found she liked it.

Finally, she blinked and he looked away, going back to watching the ground as they walked. She almost forgot how to walk, stumbling over a large shard of wood that had been blown off in the barrage. Silence gripped them yet again, and that allowed time for Emilie to think a little bit. She realised she wanted to help him, but if that got back to the Germans, she could be pressed against a wall and shot for treason. But she had to try. She had to save at least _some_ lives, even if they were from the enemy's side.

"Eugene," she spun around, stepping in front of him to block his path. He barely had time to stop, and, when he did, they were but inches apart, so close she could feel his warm breath tickling her skin. He stepped back, and she was once again cold. She began to speak, in such a rush the words almost connected, "Listen. I know I shouldn't be doing this, but we… They are planning to bring in an air strike in three days. And when they do, you'll have to treat some serious wounds. What I'm trying to say is you should take this time to stock up on medicine, find a way to make sure your soldiers aren't too far from their foxholes when the time comes without making it seem like you've been talking with a Kraut. Oh, and be careful. I know that's hard for a medic, but please just try not to get killed." _Why should I care if he gets killed?_

He was quiet for a few moments, staring out into the distance where the other Americans were. "Thank you for the warning," he finally murmured, a small crease forming between his eyebrows as he frowned in concentration, lips pursed. Damn, those lips… Emilie exhaled, annoyed with herself. What was getting into her?

The mood now was dark, and Emilie found herself worrying about whether or not this would affect how Eugene viewed her. Perhaps this had put up a barrier between them, with him being the American soldier and she being the German. And yet she couldn't, for once, hate herself for speaking up. She had done something, and she felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. All she could do now was pray that each army would come out of this more or less in one piece. But that was almost an impossible expectation in war.

"So," Emilie finally spoke up, her voice a little uneven as she continued to shiver, the snowflakes that were gently falling and melting in her hair not exactly helping with the cold. "If you're Cajun—"

"Half-Cajun," Eugene broke in, smiling ever-so-lightly.

She rolled her eyes. "Right, right, sorry, _half_-Cajun," she laughed, "But, really, that's like saying I'm only half-German. People still see me as a German. Anyway, let's not get into that, yeah? What I was gonna ask is _paule vous François?_"

He seemed surprised, glancing sideways at her questioningly. "_Oui._ _Et toi?_"

Emilie tilted her head from side to side, shrugging. "Eh," she replied, "Only what I learnt in school. I'm not fluent. Two languages are enough for me." She chuckled.

Eugene nodded.

"You know, I've never been to the States," she told him, shoving her hands in her pockets as they walked on, "I would like to, though. Hey, it's quite a coincidence you're from Louisiana."

"How so, miss Demont?"

"Well, my Oma," She hesitated a second before clarifying, "My grandma got really sick when I was twelve. No one could cure her. Then she heard about this… God, I can't remember what it's called. Ah, _traiteuse_! That's it. Anyway, she went all the way over to the US to meet this Cajun woman in Louisiana. And, lo and behold, a month later she returned to us, completely cured," She shook her head, smiling at the memory of one of the few good members of her insane family, "I couldn't believe it."

She looked over to see Gene staring at her, lips parting slightly. Emilie smirked, "You okay there, trooper?"

Removing his bare hands from his pockets and rubbing them together, he nodded slowly. "That was my grandma."

Emilie let out a shocked sound. "No shit!" she exclaimed, smiling broadly, "Wow. Well, your grandma did an amazing job, Gene. If I could thank her myself, I would. That was freakin' magic."

Eugene smiled.

They talked a little more; Eugene asked about her family, and she opened up as much as she felt comfortable with. She told him that they didn't really get along, that she and her mother had always been locked in a battle because she wasn't the perfect, obedient daughter she had wanted. Her father was weak. And then she spent a few minutes raving about her little brother, which eased a smile out of Gene. She had discovered she enjoyed making him smile or laugh, and had kind of made it a challenge for herself.

She explained a little of how she had moved to Australia and her job as a nurse, and they shared a few stories about their times as medics. It seemed to Emilie that he had faced everything she had, and that gave her a little bit of comfort in the knowledge that she wasn't the only one going through this.

When it was his turn, he told her about his home town, his family, and why he had become a medic. He had dropped out of school shortly before he graduated primary school during the Depression, and had gone to work at the nearby mechanics. When he was twenty, he had signed up for the Airborne, but not as a medic. But, once, when they had run up Currahee (he had told her about Sobel and the torture he had put them through; but, apparently, it had paid off) a man had tripped and injured his leg. Sobel had screamed that no one was to help him, but Eugene had stopped to check on him, ignoring Sobel's abuse. When they had finished the run, he had been called into the CO's office, supported by Lieutenant Winters, and was told by Colonel Sink that he had purposely disobeyed a direct order in order to help a fallen soldier, and that that was the type of man he wanted as a medic. As it turned out, Sobel had recommended him.

Emile listened intently, engrossed in his stories, and he seemed a little relieved to talk about it with someone, even if she was the enemy.

Finally, Emilie noticed that it was beginning to get dark. How had she not realised that before? God, she was going to have absolute hell to pay when she got back to the line. Eugene seemed to notice at the same time she did, his eyes raised to the sky that was blanketed by dark clouds.

"I have to get back," Emilie told him softly, feeling inexplicably sad and disappointed, almost resentful. Whenever she was around him, everything bad faded away. She could almost have forgotten she was in the midst of world war. It had been as though they had been in a bubble of their own little world that Emilie didn't want to leave; or, at least, that was how she had felt.

"It's been a pleasure." Eugene extended a hand, and Emilie remembered the first time they had met, when he had helped her to her feet. Always helping. She took it, and even through her thick gloves she could feel they were freezing and shaking, though he seemed determined to not let her see how much he was suffering. That was when she truly realised what he was wearing, and she was horrified at the sight: he wore boots with no weather-proof lining, he had no gloves, and the only thing between him and the snow was his ordinary uniform, not built for shielding the wearer from harsh European winters.

"You won't last a week with those clothes," she breathed, alarmed, "I mean, I know that you were brought here without any warning, but this is fucking ridiculous, Gene."

He withdrew his hand, eyes flitting over his clothes before landing back on her face, jaw set and eyes hooded. "We don't got nothin' else to wear."

"Take the coat and scarves off the dead German soldiers we saw back there," she suggested, gesturing behind them. She tried not to dwell on the fact that they _were_ dead, even if she didn't know them. But it was hard.

Eugene frowned. "Isn't that a bit disrespectful, even if they are Krauts?" She didn't know whether to be glad he felt comfortable around her enough to call them by that somewhat offensive nickname, or to be irritated.

"Well, they won't be needing them," she replied darkly.

He studied her face for a few moments longer, while she stared back at him coolly, before finally shaking his head. "We'll find a way to cope."

"Fine, have it your way. But don't come running to me when your fingers are falling off." _Actually, on second thought, feel free to come running to me anytime._ She bit her tongue.

"Thank you, miss Demont," Eugene smiled thinly, preparing to walk away.

She chuckled. "It's Emilie."

"Miss Emilie."

"Do you enjoy being difficult, or does it just come naturally?"

He smiled once more, before turning and waking quickly away, hands shoved in his pockets and breath billowing around him. He looked back only once.

As Emilie walked back to the German line, she was on a strange high, a feeling she had never experienced before. When silence fell upon her once more, broken only by the snow crunching under her feet, she realised she could hear her heart pounding in her ears, and it took a good ten minutes for it to calm down to a regular beat. Even more strange, she discovered she was smiling uncontrollably, and only stopped when her cheeks began to ache. Had someone put laughing gas in the air or something?

But the high quickly became the lowest of lows when she stopped in front of the fallen German soldiers, sorrow and regret now gripping her heart that just a minute ago had been squeezing with joy. Crouching down, she closed each of their eyes, hoping to compensate at least a little for what she was about to do. She carefully pried their stiff, freezing arms out of their coats, unwrapped the scarves from their necks that she was sure would snap off if she pressed on them too hard, and slid their gloves off their blackened hands. "I'm sorry," she whispered, scared that her tears would freeze on her face if she let them fall. "I am so, so sorry."

But the remaining soldiers needed the clothes more than they did.


	9. Breaking Down

_A/N: Most of the major events I describe in this fic actually happened, such as the 90 minute barrage on the Germans. So, in this one, the thing about the American soldier spotting the tree is true; that soldier was Easy's very own Shifty Powers. (;_

_This is a shortie, enjoy!_

_xx_

Finally, a handful of doctors arrived and took their sweet time erecting an aid station behind the line, at the base of a small dike. But, instead of feeling relieved, she felt an indescribable rage. As soon as the news reached her ears, she leapt out of her foxhole and stormed towards the aid station, slamming her fist down on the table when she walked in to announce her presence. All of the doctors jumped and whirled around, eyes wide. One dropped the small, glass bottle of medicine they had been holding, but, luckily, the snow stopped it from breaking and leaking all the precious fluid onto the ground.

"Nice of you to finally show up," she growled through clenched teeth, gaze sweeping over the doctors; some met her glare stubbornly, while the others awkwardly averted their eyes. "Do you know what we have gone through while all of you have been off, traipsing around the country?"

"We haven't been—"

"Don't interrupt me while I'm speaking," Emilie snapped, fuelled by her anger and pain. They fell silent, and she continued on, voice now quiet that only added to her menace, "Do you know how many men I've lost? Huh? _Do you?_ No, you don't, because _you weren't here_. In the last few days alone, two men have died at my hands. Now, that might not seem like a lot, because you're the oh-so-amazing doctors, but that's two more families that won't be seeing their sons again."

The doctors exchanged a glance, clearly indignant, before one boldly stepped forward. "This is war," he spoke up, meeting her burning gaze steadily, "People will die, and there is nothing we can do about that."

"Nothing we can…" She closed the distance between herself and the doctor, stopping mere inches away, "We are meant to save them! When they die, that's _our_ fault. Don't you get that? If you had been here, maybe we could have been able to do something. I'm just a goddamn medic. They needed a _surgeon!_"

He reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched away, eyes still locked with his. He let out a sigh. "If we could have been here, we would have been. I'm sorry, miss." The doctor glanced back at the men behind him, before looking back at her, narrowing his eyes in concern. "I read a report by an American combat psychiatrist. He wrote that there is a certain number of days a soldier can be in combat before he becomes too traumatised, breaks down, and is ultimately ineffective; about 180, on average." He hesitated, before asking, "How many days have you been on the frontline as a medic?"

Emilie fought to quell the rage in her heart. If he thought he could just change the subject like that, he had another thing coming, But, reluctantly, she replied, words stiff, "I was drafted in late '41, and was in my first battle on June 6th of this year."

"D-Day," the Doctor murmured.

She nodded once.

"I'll put it frankly. Statistically, you are in danger of breaking down any day now," he told her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with one hand, "I strongly recommend you see a psychiatrist."

"I'm fine," she shot back, but couldn't help feeling caught off guard and a little worried by what he had said. She knew she couldn't handle much more of this, but she was damn well going to try, and she wasn't going to leave her men to go see some psychiatrist who wouldn't be able to do anything for her anyway. "You're here to look after the men, not fuss over me."

He shook his head solemnly. "You won't be able to help the men if you don't look after yourself, ma'am."

Emilie swallowed, quivering with anger. "J-just get this aid station up and running," she hissed, struggling to not panic about what she had just been told. He had a point. But she had always been stubborn. With that, she turned and stalked back out into the freezing wind.

Just a few metres away were two freshly dug graves, with sticks tied together with twine placed over them as a makeshift cross. Emilie sucked in a shaky breath through her nose.

The day before, she had left her regiment safely behind in their foxholes, after handing out the coats she had pilfered from the dead soldiers and performing her daily check-ups, and tagged along with another group. She had started to divide her time between all the different regiments, as she was still the only medic, and had already begun to learn the men's names. It was an exhausting job, but one that had to be done, and she had been flattered to learn that the men looked forward to her visits each day. Maybe she was doing something right for a chance.

The group she had attached herself to for the day had trekked over to Noville, their white parkas blending in with the freshly fallen snow and thus hiding them in plain sight from any American sentries. The group had been setting up 88s in the woods, hoping to shoot down any American aircrafts that came to assist the Allies. They had hoped to conceal the flak guns from the Yanks by placing trees strategically around them, but one of the Americans must have spotted the new trees, as a few minutes later a 105mm fired a round about 300m to the left of them. Thankfully, no one was hit, and Emilie could almost believe the Americans were stupid enough to have thought they had hit their target, and wouldn't fire anymore.

But she had been painfully wrong. Soon after, before anyone had time to do anything, the same guns had fired several rounds from each gun, hitting their target dead-on this time. The Germans had scrambled to get out of there, screaming to each other, trying to salvage what they could from the now-destroyed antiaircraft guns. They had dove for cover, and Emilie had hit the deck, crawling towards the sandbags surrounding the 88s as the American guns continued to fire relentlessly. Panting and her blue eyes huge with terror, she had looked around, shielding her face as another round hit its target. _You've hit us,_ she had wanted to scream at them, _now you're just doing it for fun!_

Most of the soldiers had managed to find cover in the woods, and had Emilie thought with a flare of hope that no one had been wounded. But then her gaze had found one man curled up under the wrecked 88s, beside the raised base. Explosions still booming around her, she had crawled forward as fast as she could and thrown her body over the man to shield him from the falling debris, clamping her helmet to her head, eyes squeezed shut.

But, when there was a brief break in the assault, she had looked up and saw that the man was already dead, blood dripping from his parted lips. She had let out a single, dry sob.

"Emilie," a voice had yelled from behind her, and she had turned to see a young man that could hardly have been 19 rushing towards her.

"Get down, you idiot!" she had called to him, waving frantically with one hand. She hadn't even realised it had been dripping with blood until she had raised it.

He had skidded on his knees to a halt in front of her, looking down at the body. "Do you need help?" he had looked up at her, eyes glittering hopefully despite the trauma he had just been through, "I wanted to be a medic, but I didn't qualify for it." He had shrugged, looking so innocent with his thick, golden locks.

Before she could reply, a final shell had exploded behind them, the force sending them flying through the air. She had been briefly blinded, ears ringing, but when she had looked over, she had been faced with the boy's motionless body, one if his arms draped across her back. What was meant to be a simple task had turned into yet another day of death. The men had been much too young. Like always.


	10. How Can Helping Be Treachery

"We're taking the fight into the woods today, soldiers," Emilie's CO announced. He had woken them at dawn, from what had been a restless, near-sleepless night on Emilie's part, and they were now standing at ease in their foxholes as he stood before them, above ground. "To hit the Americans where it hurts. I'm not going to lie to you, men," He paused, eyes finding Emilie for a split second, "And woman. We've had a few of our men captured by them, and more killed by them. By doing this, we are doing our comrades justice."

He was interrupted by Karl to her left, who cleared his throat. "Sir, forgive me if I am out of place for asking."

Her CO raised an eyebrow, but nodded, gesturing for him to continue.

All eyes were on Karl as he began, sounding a little nervous. "Is it true? Clearly, the Americans have not accepted our proposal for peace, but is it true that their commander sent back the reply 'nuts'? Someone told me the term means 'go to Hell'."

The CO pursed his lips, nodding once again. "They refused our offer of a truce, so I'm choosing to take it as a sign that they want to fight. We'll teach them to show us some respect." He raised his rifle over his head. "For the Motherland!" he yelled, and all the men around him cheered, shaking their guns over their heads. A few fired shots into the air, still yelling their support.

"For the Motherland," Emilie breathed, clapping softly along with the other soldiers_. The other soldiers._ She was a soldier.

"Follow me!" her CO ordered, and with that all the men jumped out of their foxholes, fired up by adrenaline and wanting vengeance for their dead and imprisoned friends. When Emilie didn't move, assuming she was to stay behind, her CO walked over to her and offered a hand. "You too, Demont." She could have sworn she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his face.

She waved off his hand and clambered out of the foxhole, struggling to heave herself out with all her medic bags weighing her down. Her CO stood back and watched pointedly; she could tell he was thinking_ 'hey, I offered you my help'_. Hearing the soldiers chuckling as they watched her fuelled her on and she finally stood up triumphantly.

But the loose snow at the edge of her foxhole gave way under her feet and she stumbled backwards, arms swinging around and around as she fought to regain her balance. But her efforts were useless, and she landed back in the hole with a thud. Her tailbone felt like it had been set on fire and she cursed under her breath. The men above her erupted with raucous laughter, and she looked up to see them peering down at her, grinning.

"You alright there, Em?"

"So eager to get back to bed?"

"Six feet underground already?"

Emilie scowled up at them for a moment, before her sneer broke into a wide smile and she let out a loud, un-ladylike burst of laughter. "Shut up, sheißkopfs!" she yelled up at them, still grinning goofily. That only made them laugh harder. "Okay, well, now that I've officially lost all my self-respect, could I have a hand getting out of here? Please? This is a one-time offer; you'll never hear me say that word again, boys."

Every single man's, save her CO's, hand shot forward, some straining to get closer to her so she would chose them to help her up. She let out a giggle and reached up, clasping the hand of the man who had been shoved back by all the others; he had always been shy, awkward, smaller than the other men with a seemingly fragile, delicate, bony frame, and thick glasses and slight buck-teeth, too afraid to talk to her because he was evidently unsure of how to talk to women. He hadn't seemed to realise that she was one of the guys. Who just happened to have tits.

He seemed shocked that she had chosen him, and all the other men groaned in disappointment. He struggled to help her up, as he was almost the same size as her, and it was an awkward ordeal, but finally she was standing beside him, wiping dirt and snow off of her ass. He stared at her with something akin to wonder and disbelief. "Well, thank you, Zimmermann." She smiled, trying to ignore the pain in her lower back. But her pride was hurt more, not that she really cared around her regiment. They were family, and she had seen their most embarrassing moments as well.

Zimmermann smiled back, his top teeth lightly touching his bottom lip. She found it strangely cute. She had always liked mice, though she expected he would hate to be compared to one. "No need to thank me," he replied, speaking with a slight lisp, "I'm just surprised you even know my name."

"How could I not?" She began to follow her CO and the other soldiers, waiting a second for Zimmermann to join her.

He looked down, face falling. "You probably only know who I am because of how weird I look, right?"

Emilie spluttered in indignation. "What are you talking about?" she demanded, "No, I know who you are because you're a fantastic soldier and a good man. You joined the army just after me, on the fourth of December, 1941. You're 21 years old, from Neunberg. Now, how would I know that if I hadn't been paying attention? Sebastian, even if we haven't talked, you're my family here." She was almost surprised by herself.

Zimmermann stared at her for a few heartbeats, and she smiled back at him. Then he slowly began to lean in, and before she knew what was happening his lips brushed hers. Emilie leapt backwards, almost falling over once more. "What are you doing?" she yelped.

He looked crestfallen and alarmed. "I-I'm sorry, Emilie," he began, rubbing his hands together, "I thought… That was inappropriate of me. Forgive me." He looked away, and she barely heard him mutter, "Who would ever want to kiss _me?_"

_That's what I get for being nice to people. _Still surprised, it took a second for her muscles to relax. As soon as they did, she shook her head, smiling reassuringly. "No, no, it's fine," she assured him, "Don't worry about it. You'll find someone who will want to kiss you, Seb. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that…" She chuckled lightly, trying to not make it sound as awkward as she felt, "Well, that was a bit sudden, and I was thinking we could start off by just being friends, yeah?"_ And I like someone else. _She bit back the words. They weren't true. She didn't like anyone else. Not Eugene. That was ridiculous. Insane. She didn't like him… Did she?

Zimmermann nodded, seemingly relieved that she wasn't punching him in the jaw. "Yes, of course," He let out a breath, smiling thinly, "Thank you, Emilie."

To her dismay, she looked over to see all the men watching the pair, barely stifling their laughter. Apparently, Emilie was a source of great amusement that particular day. The rest of the walk into the woods, the men pestered them, and Emilie and Zimmermann were quickly labelled as 'the Beauty and the Beast'. Emilie was ready to shoot back a stinging retort, defending Sebastian, but he smiled kindly at her and told her not to worry, he wasn't offended. Strangely, he seemed to be lapping up the rare attention, and, to Emilie's chagrin, he appeared proud of himself for what he had almost accomplished with her. _Well, at least I've made their day. I guess I can do without my dignity._

Her CO didn't join in the joking, his face set in a stony expression. The laughter quickly died down when he raised as hand as they entered the woods, and was replaced by nervous murmurings and eyes darting back and forth. A few prayed under their breath. They were now in enemy territory. Though the German army had a reputation of being fantastic soldiers, which they were, most of the soldiers could still be called boys, and, as such, they did get afraid. Tension always crackled before a battle; a mixture of excitement and fear.

They walked a little more, until their CO gave the signal to set up their defences. There were mixed feelings; some of the men much preferred the cover of fighting underneath trees, while others, the soldiers that enjoyed warfare, were at their element and found thrill in the open field, where the enemy had nowhere to hide, and neither did you, so it was, in their eyes, a more 'fair fight'. Emilie bit her tongue. There was no such thing as a fair fight. There was nothing fair about killing. It was still murder, even if it was 'justified'.

Emilie waited, crouched with her back pressed against the thin trunk of a tree (it subconsciously made her feel better to know no one could sneak up on her from behind), as some of the soldiers set up a single machine gun behind a larger, fallen snow-covered tree. The rest cocked their guns and checked, and rechecked, their ammunition. And then the worst part came. The waiting. No one dared speak. Everyone breathed through their open mouth so as not to make any noise, which made Emilie's throat sting and throb when she sucked in the freezing air. More than one person was on the verge of hyperventilating, but their friends managed to calm them down.

They waited for the Americans to find them. They waited to die. They waited to kill. They waited with their comrades they knew better than anyone else, with a bond that could only be forged in the barracks and on the battlefield, huddled together in the cold.

Emilie edged quietly over to the cover of the fallen trees, falling in at the end of the line. She checked her medicine supplies (an almost pointless exercise, as she couldn't go back even if she had forgotten something. But it soothed her to have something to do), creating the only sound. For once, there was no wind, though a light sprinkle of snow stated to fall, as per usual. Emilie found herself hoping Eugene would be amongst the Americans when they came. _No._ She instantly reprimanded herself. He would be safer in his foxhole.

Then the moment they had all been anticipating arrived. A voice could faintly be heard in the distance, along with the soft crunching of snow under boots. Everyone's eyes flicked from the advancing Americans to their CO, waiting for the order to commence fire. He stared straight ahead, jaw moving slightly from side to side as he ground his teeth together. Even officers get stressed before a fight.

He waited until the Yanks were almost on top of them, unaware of the Germans waiting for them. Emilie chewed on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from yelling out a warning to them. This went against every one of her instincts. Then her CO let out a bellow, and the peaceful air exploded with rapid gunfire and yells. Emilie pressed herself closer to the ground, still peeking out over the tree.

The Yanks dove for cover as the machine gun's bullets threw up snow when they hit the ground. But a stunned American remained standing, looking to his fellow soldiers as though asking what to do. The machine-gunner let out a chuckle. "I have him now."

"Get down, Julian!" Emilie could just hear the frantic order over the flying bullets.

But, before the man could obey, he was hit straight in the throat. Emilie watched in horror. She so desperately wanted to run forward and help him, but, even if she could, throat wounds were almost impossible to fix in time. The soldier remained standing for a few more moment, still staring at the concealed Americans to his left, before crumping to the ground. She could see the exposed muscles moving and twitching in his torn throat as he struggled to breathe, blood pulsing out in waves. She could sense the fear radiating off of him even at this distance.

"Stop moving or they'll keep shooting!" the same male voice screamed again, "Keep still!"

Emilie's eyes were fixed to the man that was still writhing in the snow; she could tell he was desperately trying to stay still, but that the pain was too much. He looked so young.

Then, when they had been in the one-sided battle for less than five minutes, Emilie heard the order to fall back rising over the gunfire. That only fuelled the Germans around her, and, for the first time, Emilie saw them as the enemies must see them: merciless. It disgusted and enraged her.

"We can't just leave him!"

"We have no choice!"

"Stay there, Julian! We are coming back! We are coming back for you, do you hear me?"

And then the Americans began to retreat, running as quickly as they could, staying low and sticking to the trees. Her CO gave the order to cease fire, that they were already running away with their tails between their legs and that they had succeeded in damaging their morale.

But one replacement continued to fire at the fallen Yank with his rifle. No one stopped him, not even the CO. So it fell to Emilie, who was shaking.

"Stop firing at that man," she ordered, using the log to help herself to her feet. She rushed forward, towards the critically injured man, but, before she reached him, the same replacement fired another shot. It whizzed right past her ear and hit a tree. She dropped into a crouch and whipped around, leaping to her feet.

"I said stop firing on that man!" she yelled, absently rubbing her ear the bullet had narrowly missed with one hand, "You have one goddamn medic, and you almost shot her! What would happen if you went and got her stupid ass hit? Who would help you then?"

He stared back at her defiantly, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. "Who are you to be giving orders?"

"Who are you to be disobeying them?" Emilie snapped back, feeling as though her blood were on fire. The replacement didn't seem to know how to react to that, and the other men elbowed him, chuckling. Nearly every one of them had felt the full brunt of her wrath at one point or another. It had become a popular saying amongst her regiment that you weren't an official member until you've been told off by Emilie Demont.

Shooting him one last, scorching glare, Emilie turned and kneeled down beside the American. His eyes sparked with fear at the sight of the German, and he struggled to get to his feet to flee. But his effort was useless. She offered a small smile, digging in her bag to find the bandages. "Hey," she murmured in English, and she felt him stiffen beside her, still choking, "Calm down, don't worry, I'm here to help you. You're going to be okay. Just keep looking at me, alright? Can you do that for me, sweetheart?"

He tried to speak, but the words just gurgled in his shredded throat, forcing more blood out.

"Shh," she soothed, placing a hand lightly on his sweaty forehead as she pressed the bandages down hard on his throat. _Then I shouldn't have asked him a question_. "Don't try to speak. I think I heard someone call you Julian. Sorry if that's not your name." She smiled again, gently pushing a stray strand of dark hair off of his brow. The thought that this could have been Eugene scared her more than anything else. But she didn't think about it. She had to concentrate. "Stay with me, Julian. Don't close your eyes, honey. I know it hurts, but the pain means you're still alive. And I'm going to keep you alive, yeah?"

The words sounded empty to her ears; she had said them so many times before, and they had almost always died. She broke her promises so often. But she had been praised as a nurse in Australia that she had excellent bedside manner, so she hoped her words managed to comfort Julian at least a little. She knew, deep down, that he was going to die, but she refused to accept it.

She ripped open a packet with her teeth, spitting the top of the rapper onto the snow, and sprinkled the powder onto his throat. Julian let out a gurgled cry. Emilie pressed down harder with the cloth, careful to not suffocate him while doing so. "I know, it's not fun. The powder stings a bit. Hey, when you make it out of the war, this will be a weird story to tell your friends."

She was about to tell Julian not to move, when she realised he was fumbling in his pocket for something. Emilie glanced over, still applying pressure to the wound that refused to stop bleeding – the bullet had hit an artery – and helped him pull out a crinkled, folded letter. He shoved it into her hand.

Emilie shook her head, chin quivering as she tried to smile. "No, no, I won't be needing this. You can give it to whoever it's for for yourself when you make it out of here."

He pushed it more insistently into her hand, huge eyes wet and pleading as he stared up at her. What sounded like 'please' sounded in his throat. Reluctantly, she took it from him and tucked it into her jacket's breast pocket. As soon as she did so, Julian's eyes began to flicker shut, with a small, gurgling 'thank you'. Emilie pressed down even harder on his neck; her hands were now drenched in blood, and the cloth was completely red. "No. Hey," she tucked some of her hair behind her ear, smearing the side of her face with his blood. She let out a sniffle. "Hey, Julian." She patted the side of his cheek, her hands shaking, "No, sweetie, don't you dare. You stay with me, do you hear? Your friends are coming back for you. If you can't stay awake for me, stay awake for them. Julian!"

But it was no use. His last breath had left his body, and his muscles had stopped their spasms. Emilie had never been one for giving up. She shook his shoulders, continuing to press down on his throat. "Julian!" she screamed, back shuddering as she fought back her tears. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't cry. Finally, leaning back on her haunches in defeat, she looked away, swallowing resolutely. Then her gaze flicked back to his corpse. So it wasn't just Germans she was unable to save.

Letting out a screech, she threw the blood-soaked bandage against a tree, the crimson liquid splattering off as it hit, small droplets staining her face. Then she closed her eyes, the image of his dead body imprinted behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, she let out a breath and began to pack up her bag, standing up and walking away from Julian.

"Emilie, are you alright?" one of the soldiers reached forward to touch her, but she held up a hand, not looking at him.

"Don't touch me," she snarled, pulling her jacket tighter around her body as she continued back to the German line, not waiting for her CO. He didn't protest. Only when she remembered something did she stop, not looking back as she warned them, voice low and deadly, "Oh, and if anyone dares strip his body, you'll have me to deal with. Someone bury him, don't just leave him there to rot." She would have done it herself, but she couldn't bear to look at him any longer. But she deserved to be forced to, to be tortured by staring at his body.

As she walked away, she heard the replacement hiss that she was a traitor for helping the American, to which another soldier replied that she was the best, most loyal medic they could ever have hoped for, and that they were lucky to have her. If only they knew.


	11. I'll Fight Through It

It had been three days since the Julian incident. The day after, Emilie had made the long walk back to the woods to see if her soldiers actually had buried his body, and she had been almost surprised to find they had; there was a freshly over-turned mound of dirt and snow under the trees, near the log where the machine-gunner had fired the fatal shot. Emilie had tensed at the memory. Thankfully, the freshly-fallen snow had covered the blood. It hurt to be back there, and Emilie expected she would never be able to see another forest without thinking of the dead American soldier, who looked like he hadn't even been old enough to buy a beer.

She hadn't left her foxhole since, and she was at the point where she couldn't feel the lower half of her body, while the upper half tingled from the cold. Her thick, scratchy blanket was pulled up to her chin. That was her way of dealing with things. It reminded her of her lone trip from Germany to Australia when she had left her family. Abandoned her brother. She didn't want to think about it. That was not what she needed right now. Or maybe it was. Maybe enough pain would just kind of make her shut down, so she wouldn't have to feel anything anymore. Her mother would have scolded her for being so morbid.

On the second day, someone must have alerted the doctor when Emilie didn't make her daily rounds to check up on the soldiers. It wasn't that she didn't want to. Oh, how she wanted to. But she psychically couldn't. The doctor that she had abused after two of her men had been killed appeared above her, looking down into the foxhole.

"Miss Demont?"

Emilie grimaced at the name Eugene called her by. "Don't call me that," she croaked. She angled her head up to look at him, squinting when she was faced with the sun. "What, have you come to gloat? I guess you were right. Maybe I have broken down after all."

He shook his head, looking genuine sympathetic. "That may not be what this is," he replied, squatting with his elbows resting on his knees, "I have seen this before. It's a common reaction to losing a patient. Your CO told me what happened. Julian, was that his name?"

She didn't reply.

"Anyway, what I'm saying is this may be a very mild case of post-traumatic stress disorder," The doctor blinked, seemingly waiting for a reaction from her. When she gave him none, he continued, "It may be best if you came off the line. Now, I know what you are going to say, and we doctors and the _Hilfskrankentragers _can care for any wounded soldiers. The responsibility is off your shoulders now, Emilie." 

Emilie snorted. "Sir, I'm not even going to honour that heinous suggestion with a response."

The doctor looked taken aback, as though he had been expecting her to leap with joy. Clearly, he knew nothing about her. "This is my professional medical opinion, Emilie," he pressed.

"And in _my_ professional medical opinion, doctor, I am hunky-dory," she insisted through gritted teeth. When he looked confused by her terminology she had picked up in her times in Australia, she clarified, "I am perfectly fine. Just drop this and let me do my job."

"You can't _do_ your job if you're hauled up in your foxhole," he protested.

She shot to her feet; since she hadn't walked for over a day, all the blood rushed to her head and she almost stumbled. But she forced herself to remain standing, using the wall of the foxhole for support. She raised her chin in a challenge, daring him to say anything more. "_Screw you_, sir," she hissed, the blanket crumpling around her feet as she dragged herself out of her foxhole. The doctor stood back, and, when she was at full height on the ground in front of him, she may as well have still been down in the foxhole with him looming over her. Ah, the joys of being undersized.

"I'm just trying to help," he told her softly. She recognised the voice he was using, trying to lull her into submission. Well, it wasn't going to work. If there was one thing she definitely was, it was stubborn. She guessed she inherited that from her mother, who she was always locking horns with. Her heart twinged at the thought. She hadn't even realised she was missing the woman; yes, it was good to be away from her, out from under her shadow, but still. Genetics is the least of what makes a mother.

"Go help someone who needs it," Emilie replied, patting her medicine bag pointedly, "I have men to examine." Before she walked away dramatically, she paused and turned back to him, "And that sounded much less creepy in my head."


	12. This Is A Gift And It Comes With A Price

It was New Year's Eve. The sun had already slid behind the horizon, and now the sky was a bleak grey. Twilight had never looked so miserable. For the past few days, everyone had had trouble sleeping. It wasn't just because of the stress and cold, however; the flares the Germans sent up into the sky didn't just keep the Yanks awake. Every time one illuminated the night sky and turned it red, Emilie was once more wide awake. The process repeated a few times a night, and by the time they stopped and she finally managed to drift into an uneasy sleep, the sun was already rising and it was time to get up. It was a horrible circle, and one no one could keep up for much longer.

To celebrate the victory of Bastogne every German could see was right around the corner, every man in their foxhole began singing loudly, their own versions of 'Silent Night'. The Americans yelled back insults at them, telling them to shut the hell up and that they won't be celebrating for much longer. No one else paid any attention to their threats, laughing instead, but Emilie felt a sense of dread. They were perfectly capable of upholding their threats.

She sat on a fallen log, blanket tucked around her, staring into the distance at the dark trees, only half-listening to the singing all around her. Even her CO joined in. It was nice to see them happy, and, for the first time since Julian's death, she actually smiled genuinely.

But she always dreaded night time in the war. Not because the enemy could sneak up on them, not because that was the time the temperature dropped, but simply because that silence, when she was all alone, gave her time to think about things. Things she didn't want to think about. Things like the people she had seen die in her arms, her little brother. It would be his birthday soon. She wondered if a birthday card would reach him if she sent one from this Hell hole. No, wait. It was too damn cold to be Hell.

She had tried to ask God for forgiveness, asked Him (or Her, for that matter) to take the pain of all the losses away. But, so far, her prayers had been utterly useless. Maybe God couldn't see Bastogne. Maybe they were on their own there. She glanced down at the small, golden cross that dangled around her neck, brushing her fingers over it. She didn't even feel that she should be wearing it anymore.

She had heard rumours that Dietrich was tired of war, and that if Hitler were to ask for peace, he would back him up whole-heartedly. He should have known better than to expect anyone to forgive Hitler. His life would not end well. But what was most disturbing was that one of the most powerful Nazis in the country was ready to give up. That was good thing, granted, but it hadn't exactly helped morale. 'What hope do we have now?' had been a question whispered throughout the camp. But no one was ready to surrender just yet.

Too caught up in her own dark thoughts (she really needed to learn how to live in the moment), Emilie didn't notice when the singing died down and the last of the sun's pale rays disappeared altogether. It must have been midnight. A whole new year. How many people would live to see next New Year's? They had been wrong about being home for Christmas.

The Germans let out a loud cheer, but it was drowned out by the Americans, whose cheering was truly something to behold. She would have thought there would have been none of them left by now, or that they would have been too battle-weary to celebrate. But that wasn't the case. Emilie's hint of a smile widened, and she was glad the darkness concealed it. Enough people had already been calling her a traitor and American sympathiser since she helped Julian, an accusation lead by that damn replacement. That was not what she needed right now, more problems. So she just ignored them and continued on her way whenever she heard the mutterings.

Suddenly, the American's triumphant (what did they have to be triumphant about, exactly?) yells reached their crescendo and a mighty roar filled the air. What sounded like every gun the Yanks had at their disposal fired at the Germans; every mortar, every high explosive. Emilie jumped backwards, taking cover behind the log and covering her ears. She had never heard anything so loud. The ground shook even more violently than it had when she had been beside the 88s on her first day in Bastogne. It suddenly seemed like daylight, with all the explosions lighting up the dark.

As she watched, heart racing, she thought that maybe God had answered her prayers after all. So far, no one had been hit. Thank the Lord for the foxholes!

Being the moron she was, she thought she could make it back to her foxhole, which would be far safer than behind a log. She ran towards it, falling only a few times and even then she was back on her feet in a split second. Maybe she didn't run fast enough; maybe she wasn't close enough to the ground; maybe it was a hopeless attempt to start with. Or maybe she was just unlucky. Because, when her foxhole was within sight (she could probably have reached it if she dove for it), what felt like a club smashing into her heel knocked her off her feet. Her right Achilles tendon exploded into agony, and she let out a cry that was almost inaudible above the bombardment.

Not thinking, she screamed out for a medic before she realised her mistake.

She couldn't think clearly, the burning agony clouding her mind. Nothing had ever hurt this much; well, physically, anyway. Leaving her brother had hurt a hell of a lot.

And then there was silence, broken only by the cheers of the Americans. The night was once again dark. Emilie gritted her teeth together, her face pressed into the ground as she writhed in pain, arching her back and letting out another silent cry.

"Is everyone alright?" she faintly heard her CO call, but he sounded so far away even though, logically, she knew he would only have been standing a few metres away.

The other soldiers called back reassurance, their voices considerably less cheerful. She recognised Zimmermann's voice as he asked, "Where's Emilie?" She assumed he was looking into her foxhole; his was beside hers.

That sent everyone into a frenzy. Even the stupid replacement knew that losing their only medic would mean disaster, and they may be forced to retreat just because of that. They began frantically searching, calling out her name. They couldn't see her in the pitch-black darkness, and she cursed inwardly. She could only let out a groan.

"I heard her!" someone exclaimed, and everyone stopped and turned in his direction, "It came from somewhere over there, near her foxhole. I… I think she's hit. I can't see."

"Well, don't just stand around," her CO ordered, and she heard his heavy footsteps walking towards her. The other men followed him. She slightly opened one eye, and what she saw frightened her the most. Well, more accurately, what she _didn't _see. Everything was in mottled shades of black and grey. Of course, that was what was expected at midnight, but this was different. Everything was distorted; the voices around her sounded like echoes, her head burned. She tried to raise her head, but she flopped back down to the ground, hard. Great. Another concussion.

Not much truly scared her, but this was a rare exception. Because she may not be able to help her army. What use was a blind medic? But, thankfully, when she closed her eyes and opened them again, everything was more or less back to normal, with only a slight distortion. That was more than could be said for the excruciating pain, working its way up her leg.

"Demont."

Emilie looked up to see her CO had crouched down beside her, along with Zimmermann and a few others she couldn't make out. The replacement was standing back, arms folded over his chest, but she could tell he was just as afraid as anyone else, even if he seemed to have a personal vendetta against her.

"Sir," she managed to croak out, though the word got a little lost in her throat. "I-I'm sorry. I'm hit. My a-ankle. God, I'm so stupid. It was my fault."

"You need to learn how to keep your ass out of trouble, Demont," he grumbled back, but she could detect the concern in his rough voice. Concern? Him? Wow.

The next voice she recognised was that bloody doctor, standing behind the CO. Always the bearer of bad news. Why wasn't he helping her? "Sir," he spoke up, quietly, as though trying to not let Emilie hear. Her CO turned to him as he continued. "Sir, the aid station was hit by heavy mortar fire. All our supplies are gone, and, even if they weren't, I can't operate in the dark, or at least not very well. What do you want us to do?"

Her CO was silent for a few seconds, and no one spoke, waiting for him. Only Emilie's occasional moans broke the quiet. She knew she was a goner. "Someone may as well shoot me and save me the pain," she muttered, unintentionally kicking someone hard in the shin as she struck out with her uninjured leg. They jumped back, but made no complaint. They must have known what she was going through.

"No one's shooting anyone," her CO replied sharply, "Let's leave that to the Americans."

She heard the replacement snicker. "The woman probably gave them information, and this was only karma."

Emilie let out an infuriated cry, attempting to prop herself up by her elbows, but her arms failed and she slumped back to the ground. "Come over here and say that," she growled through gritted teeth. Her tongue hurt from where she must have bit it when she fell, and as such her voice sounded a little odd, "Shot or not, I can still take you." She was serious. She would try if he was game.

"I don't strike any woman but my wife," he replied with a sniff, "Especially not wounded, pathetic ones."

That angered her more than anything else. Sexism. But, before she could say anything more, another wave of fire swept up her leg and she broke off in a fit of coughing. She could taste blood.

"Stop bickering!" Zimmermann yelped, "This won't help!"

The replacement sneered, "Look at the mutt, defending his bitch."

She could feel everyone bristling around her.

"Silence!" her CO ordered, voice booming. Everyone obeyed him; even Emilie attempted to keep her pain-induced noises to a minimum. "This is disgraceful! If we don't help her now, our only medic will die of blood loss." Emilie tensed even more, which she didn't think was possible.

No one spoke for a few moments. Then she recognised the voice of the sweet man that had talked to her back in Eindhoven when she had smashed the plates. Funny, the little things she remembered. "I think I have an idea. Could somebody please bring around a jeep?"

Almost everyone rushed to do so, not wanting to be around Emilie any longer. Honestly, she thought she was handling it pretty well, what with her precious lifeblood pooling onto the snow around her. Jeeps were quite a rare thing, as most of the Germans still used horse-drawn methods of transportation.

_A/N: Stay tuned, my darlings. C:_

_xx_


	13. Who Is The Lamb And Who Is The Knife

_A/N: Ah, the lost chapter is finally up! I am so sorry, I really don't know what happened. obviously hates me ahahah. Thank you to everyone that pointed everything out and made me aware of all that had gone wrong. You saved this. I was so close to just abandoning this fic after everything went to crap, but your support inspired me not to. Thanks. And, if anyone did read my notes for where the story is going that were accidentally put up here, oh well! I hope I don't let you down. :D_

_Enjoy. xx_

By the time the Jeep came round, Emilie was fading in and out of consciousness. The sweet man, who she had since remembered was called Drechsler, had stayed with her, his hand in hers, squeezing her wrist every time she closed her eyes for more than 20 seconds. She wanted to snap at him to just let her sleep and die already, but she refrained, too tried to do anything more than breathe; she knew that, soon, she wouldn't even be able to do that so easily. He must be so terrified. Soldiers are trained for everything, but nothing can prepare them for seeing someone die right in front of them. Even Emilie wasn't yet used to it.

She wasn't even scared for herself. She had accepted she may die a few months after she had been drafted. What terrified her was the thought: _what will happen to them after I'm gone? What will my brother do? _She wasn't selfless. No, a lot of the time she was selfish. But when you don't have many people close to you, you learn to put the needs of the few you do have before yours. Maybe that was why she was lying there, struggling to stay awake, choking on her own blood.

But she knew she would still have to wait a little while longer to die; she could still feel the pain, and she was burning hot instead of ice cold. She learnt that quickly as a nurse: as soon as the patient says 'I feel cold', you can pretty much guarantee they're fucked. '_Why are you doing this to me?'_ she wanted to scream. But she already knew the answer to that, and it was a long, long list.

Finally, someone drove up the Jeep, headlights off so the Americans wouldn't notice them, and her CO scooped her up easily and laid her down gently in the back. Drechsler ushered the current driver out of the driver's seat and took his place, driving off without looking back, having to concentrate extra hard to see in the darkness and not run over anyone in their foxhole. But, somehow, they made it out of the line, and they were soon speeding along one of the roads the Germans had blocked off. He looked back every few minutes to make sure she was still alive; by that point, she was wheezing, but still very much in agony, continuing to stain the back seat with her blood. She could smell it, above all the car fumes that danced around her. Her head was throbbing and she had since broken into a cold sweat.

In her semi-conscious, somewhat delirious state, she felt as though she were flying as the car barrelled down the black road, faster than she would have thought possible. But quickly the blissful feeling turned into wanting to vomit.

Emilie closed her eyes. The cold, fresh air did little to nothing for her sickness. When she flickered open her eyes again, she was surprised to see dim lights in the distance.

"Where are we going?" she slurred, cringing when the muscles in her churning stomach tensed when she spoke and made her feel even worse. Maybe she should have asked that beforehand.

Drechsler sped up, and she was sure his boot must have been pressed right against the floor of the automobile. "Don't hate me for what I'm about to do, Emilie," he replied softly, almost pleadingly, as though begging her forgiveness.

She let out a groan, head lolling to the side to look at the back of his head. "What are you talking about, Drechsler?" She sounded drunk and, at that point, she wished she did have a drink.

He didn't reply; he didn't need to. From where Emilie was lying, she couldn't see much, but she could see that they were driving towards the town of Bastogne; even from this distance, Emilie could smell the stench of rotting corpses. Well, at least, she hoped that wasn't her.

"I hate not knowing things," Emilie grumbled, "What are we _doing_ here? This is enemy territory." She was finding it hard to even care anymore. Territories, boundaries, potato, potahto. They were all human.

Drechsler reached back, not taking his eyes off the road, and she weakly raised her hand she wasn't lying on to touch his fingers. "I'm just trying to help you," he answered, "Like all the times you've helped us."

_I haven't managed to help anyone, dumbass. _And yet she couldn't help feeling slightly flattered.

He pulled the Jeep over a few hundred metres away from the entrance to the town, and clambered over the seat so he was crouched in front of Emilie. She blinked drowsily at him, eyes half-closed, too weak to protest or ask any further questions. So she just lay there as Drechsler ripped the symbol of her regiment from her uniform and pulled out a woman's thick grey coat he explained one of the men had picked up from their lover in Eindhoven when they were last there. She tried to assist him by wriggling out of her parka and putting it on herself, but it was a mostly futile effort.

But, eventually, she was lying in the backseat with, for the most part, no sign that she was a German soldier. She felt strangely empty now, but she had to admit, it was nice to have some fresh clothes. Emilie looked up at him. "What's this for?" she asked, voice raspy and barely a whisper.

Staring at her for a moment, an unexplained glint of sadness in his ice blue eyes, he leaned forward and placed a light, lingering kiss on her forehead. She didn't protest like she had with Zimmermann. Of course, she was in no condition to slug him in the face if she was annoyed. But she wasn't. He pressed his forehead to hers, and they stayed like that for a few seconds that didn't seem to last long enough, their lips tantalisingly close, one of his hands running through her hair. She felt a little light-headed, but, for once, it wasn't the blood loss that was causing it. Fuck it, she was dying, she could enjoy this.

But what bothered her, and ruined the moment, was that, the whole time, she couldn't help imagining it was Eugene instead of Drechsler. And she hated herself for that. Why did she even want that? She wanted Drechsler, not him. At least, that was what she struggled to convince herself. She had known the German for years, whereas she had met the American, what, two times now? But they had left quite an impact, nevertheless.

Finally, Drechsler pulled away, and Emilie let out a small sigh. He hopped back into the driver's seat, restarted the engine, and drove on towards the lights. "When we get inside the town, get yourself to the hospital," he instructed her, "I've been told there has been a makeshift one constructed in a church. Speak English and no one should even suspect you're German. Say I found you injured in the woods. Who knows, maybe that'll show them we have a little compassion."

"What about you?" she asked, drawing out the last word as she broke off into yet another pained groan.

Once again, to her chagrin, he didn't respond.

What happened next happened to fast she could hardly comprehend it. At the last minute, mere metres from the entrance gate that had been reduced to rubble by bombs, something occurred to her. How had she been so stupid as to not realise it before? "Wait, they'll shoot you on sight!"

He drove straight into the town and skidded to a halt, the tyres spitting up dust as he did so. She was right. Some Americans who were walking through there turned to the car, now fully visible in in the light emanating from various sources, and must have thought Drechsler was there to kill them all. They really over-estimated the Germans. They fired one after the other and Drechsler slumped in his seat, letting out a choking sound. Since he had glanced back at her just as they fired, he was staring at her with huge eyes as life drained from his body and he collapsed into the space between the two front seats. The bullets had gone straight threw his chest.

Emilie made no sound. She swore her heart faltered. She stared at the young man in front of her, who just minutes ago had been caressing her cheek. And as she stared, all the pain in her leg and stomach and head faded away, only to be replaced by a feeling that felt like her soul was literally splintering. This had been a suicide mission. He had known he would be killed, and still he did it, for her. Why did he do it, the stupid bastard? She wasn't worth it. In what universe was she worth _this?_ How could he have loved her? Why hadn't he just stopped on the road and allowed her to drag herself to the hospital. Or, better yet, why hadn't he just let her die in his arms? She wanted to die. It would have been a better way to die. Now she had the prospect of living, with more guilt and heart-breaking sorrow and self-loathing to look forward to. Just like that, Maximillian Drechsler was dead.

As she lay there, staring at his body, feeling her heart crumble bit by bit and still not making a single sound, she was vaguely aware of the three American soldiers that had shot him walking towards the Jeep.

"Damn Krauts," one of them was saying, "Think they can waltz wherever the fuck they want. Well, we showed 'em!"

But, as they got closer, another man must have spotted her as he asked, "Hey, what's that in the back?"

"Jesus Christ, I think it's a woman. Look smart, boys."

"Is she dead?"

"How the fuck should I know, Eddie?"

They gathered around her, but she still didn't look up. She didn't want to see their ugly mugs.

"She's bleeding," one of them exclaimed, "Phil, Arthur, help me carry her inside to the hospital."

Another one let out a grunt. "She's a good-looking skirt. How the hell did she end up in the back of a Kraut vehicle?"

"Maybe she's a Kraut?"

"Yeah, and I'm King George. Well, what would she be doing here?"

"She could be a camp-follower. Either way, I don't care. Maybe she'll repay us for savin' her with a good roll in the hay."

"Guys!" one of them broke in irritably, "Just help me."

They began to lift her up, one slinging an arm under her shoulders, another under her lower back, grabbing a feel of her ass as he did so, and the last one holding her under the knees (it did not take three men to carry her, she knew that much; she was as light as a feather), when she let out a screech of "fucking put me down", startling them all and making them drop her back onto the seat.

Questions like 'what's wrong with her' ensued, and continued until a dark-haired woman in a simple, blood-stained dress with a blue, checked piece of material tied at the back of her head, came rushing out of what must have been the hospital, pulling her white coat around her. She took one look at the dead German soldier and asked in a heavy Belgian accent, "what is going on here?"

All the men turned to her, suddenly seeming like the very poster-boys for innocence.

One of them spoke up. "We found her in the back of this Kraut Jeep. She's injured. There's a whole heap of blood; it's a mess, ma'am. We had to kill the man when he started shooting at us."

_Liars._ Emilie bit back the accusation. She was going to honour Drechsler's final request. She was going to play dumb.

The woman nodded. "One of you, help me take her inside. I've sent most of the other nurses to bed, but I can still operate. Follow me, and keep her head up."

Suddenly, none of the men seemed particularly eager to carry Emilie. They stood there bickering for a few moments before the woman told them to hurry up. The task fell to the man she had already deduced was Eddie, the less pushy and sex-oriented of the trio. He bent down and hesitantly, gently scooped her up, trailing after the nurse as she led him inside the church. Emilie didn't scream or thrash this time, simply because she was too weak and exhausted. Damn, dying sure took a lot of effort. And was it really worth it? She was almost positive she would be going to the deepest, darkest recesses of Hell.

As soon as they entered the makeshift hospital, the over-powering smell of sickness and dying crashed over them. The soldier coughed and Emilie fought down the bile that rose in her throat. As she descended the stairs, she was confronted with the sight of what have must have been at least a hundred men, crammed in wherever there was space. They weren't being evacuated. Jesus, this was what was becoming of the Americans. This was what her people were inflicting on them. And yet, though she usually supported the Yanks, she couldn't help feeling a little pleased, which went against all her medical training and empathetic nature. She was almost too empathetic; she fed off other people's emotions. But not now. Now she almost rejoiced. And that made herself sick. What was she becoming?


	14. Haunted

"Pass me that cloth over there," the woman Emilie had since learned was called Rene ordered the soldier, pointing to a large, boiling pot, "I was sanitizing it for reuse when I heard the gunfire."

Rene was setting up a stand for the plasma while Emilie bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out. She wasn't going to show them she was in pain. She had once seen a man bite off his own tongue doing the same thing: trying not to scream. But she was willing to risk that. She was dead anyway.

The soldier handed Rene the cloth that was stained a soft pink with blood, showing it had unsuccessfully tried to be washed out, and she instructed him to inject some morphine into Emilie's thigh. He did as he was told. Oh, what a good little soldier.

Rene wiped at the wound with the cloth. "She's lost a lot of blood," she muttered to herself, continuing to clean the wound. The only light came from a single lamp that was positioned beside Emilie, almost blinding her. She was lying in what must have been the chapel. She was once again fading in and out of consciousness.

The soldier stood awkwardly. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

Rene didn't look up as she answered, "Yes. Talk to her, make sure she doesn't fall asleep."

Emilie felt Rene lean over and fumble for something, before she felt a sharp pain in her ankle as the nurse began to search for the bullet; it hadn't been a clean shot, and Emilie had felt the piece of metal imbedded in her skin the entire time. It hadn't been a pleasant feeling; every time she had shifted, it had rubbed against her muscles.

The soldier pulled up a chair and sat down by her head. "Um," he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a Texan accent. "Well, truth be told, I don't rightly know what to say right now that could make anything better. But the nurse said not to let you fall asleep, little lady, and, well, she's the boss. So, don't fall asleep or I'll have hell to pay."

The morphine had started to take effect, but she could still feel Rene poking around her foot. "It's hard to fall asleep with a bullet wedged in my ankle," she replied, eyelids heavy and voice slurred.

Eddie's eyes lit up. "You're Australian!" He smiled, "Boy, I told those jackasses out there you ain't a Kraut. Wait till I tell 'em they were wrong. It'll be great."

"Good to know someone gets fun out of my pain," she grumbled.

His eyes widened in alarm. "Well, now, it ain't like that," he insisted, "Don't take it the wrong way, ma'am."

She wanted to crack open his skull for the part he had had to play in Drechsler's death. Oh, how she wanted to. But she couldn't. She had to play the part of an innocent bystander, because that was what had had asked her to do. So, instead, she mumbled, "By the way, I'm not a camp-follower."

He blushed furiously, but, before he could try to backtrack what the others had said, Rene pulled out the bullet, making Emilie cry out in pain. So much for remaining strong and defiant. Eddie awkwardly attempted to soothe her.

The Belgian nurse started to stitch up the gaping wound that Emilie could feel was still oozing blood, and she hoped that the needle was sterilised. Her body couldn't handle an infection at the moment. Emilie attempted to hum 'God Save The Queen' to herself to distract herself from the burning sensation in her foot, but her humming broke off regularly as she let out barely stifled cries of pain.

Rene then proceeded to rub powder and disinfectant into the wound, and began to bandage it. She glanced at the bag of plasma dangling over Emilie's head. "Your body is eating up the plasma," she told Emilie, a triumphant edge to her soft voice. Emilie remembered the first time she had saved someone's life as a nurse. It had been the best feeling in the world. Things had quickly gone downhill from there. It slightly irritated her to be spoken down to, as though she didn't know what was happening, but she remained silent. Rene continued, walking around to face her patient, "That's a good sign. I think you'll live, but you'll be on crutches for a while." She smiled sadly, a haunted look lurking in her eyes that only someone who has seen death firsthand can have, "We'll move you to a cot and leave you to rest."

Emilie nodded, not sure if she had heard that right. She was going to live? That was the worst news she had had all day.

Eddie had since carried her back into the larger room that stunk of death, and had placed her on a free cot along the stairwell, with Rene wheeling the plasma behind him. She had then disappeared and come back a minute later holding a glass of water, which she placed on the ground beside Emilie's cost.

"You must be very dehydrated," she had explained in her kind voice, "Drink this whenever you need, and just ask me or any of the other nurses if you need a refill."

"Room-service," Emilie had mumbled into the cot, exhausted and sorrow taking over. Eddie had chuckled at that, before tipping his helmet, smiling at her, saying something she had only been half-listening to about hoping she recovers and that he might drop by to check on her if that's okay with her. When she hadn't replied, having only laid there with her eyes closed, he had let out a light, nervous laugh before walking back up the stairs. Rene had checked the bandages on her ankle once more before leaving too.

The milky dawn sun was already beginning to stream in through the stain glass windows in the other rooms. For the first time in so long, Emilie let sleep claim her. But it was anything but restful. It was filled with Drechsler's mangled, rotten body, rasping that she had done this to him. She begged him for forgiveness, but he only laughed, his mouth stretching impossibly wide, allowing maggots and cockroaches to crawl from it and drop to the ground. When she tried to run, they crawled up her legs, gluing her to the spot, ignoring her screams as every person she had ever lost joined the ranks. She remembered every one of their faces. Drechsler picked up little three year old Margaret, the first patient she had ever lost back in Australia. She had died of food-poisoning, and after losing her baby and only daughter, Margaret's mother had suicided.

"You didn't save us," little Margaret growled in a deep, distorted voice, "You were right there, Emilie, and you let us die."

"You didn't do anything, Emilie," Eichmann taunted, blood smeared across his face, "We're dead because of you."

"No!" Emilie cried desperately, struggling to break free of the bugs, "No, I tried! I'm so sorry! Please."

Drechsler's remark hurt the most: "Why don't you just kill yourself and stop using up oxygen? You're useless, Emilie. Everyone hates you. _I _hated you. I felt _sorry_ for you. You're pathetic. I let myself die just to get away from you."

Emilie was in tears. It was true. Everything they were saying was true. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, crumbling to her knees, "I-I tried."

"Well, you should have tried harder!" The last face she saw was Eugene, standing beside Drechsler, looking down at her with an expression of pure loathing.

Emilie started awake, almost falling off of the cot. She was gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face and dropping down to stain her clothes. Her palms were sweaty, her heart racing, mind working overdrive in terror. Was she going to get Eugene killed, too?

_A/N: Why did I get such immense pleasure out of writing that disturbing dream sequence I don't even. :3_

_xx_


	15. Memories

_A/N: I just want to say a huge thank you to the random reviewer who pointed out the mistake in my French! Usually, I would have checked it before I included it in the story, but, for that particular sentence, I was just going off my primary school French aha. It's a big hassle to change it now, as I would have to take the chapter down, edit it, and then upload it again, so let's just pretend that she in fact said " Est-ce que parler-vous Français" when talking to Eugene. I am a lazy bum. c: _

_Your reviews and support mean the world to me, guys. This fic is pretty much all that has occupied my mind recently (is that bad? xD) Enjoy this little drabble of a chapter; the next one will be up soon, and I'll start slotting in the flashbacks in a little while. Also, fun fact: I'm basing the Austrian boarding school off of a place my Oma was sent to for a little while during the war. 'Course, she wasn't that much of a pain in the ass ahaha. And can I just say how fun and easy Rene is to write for? I don't even know why. (;_

_xx_

Emilie had fallen into uneasy unconsciousness a few more times that night, each after long intervals where she fretted over what her dreams could mean; the more she thought about it, the more it hurt. Each time she awoke, she was once again met by the stink of the church. She swore she would never get used to it; all the death and sickness in the hospital she had served in back in Australia had been masked by disinfectant. She awoke yet again at what must have been midday, judging by the activity in the room and the light. After that, she couldn't get back to sleep, which may have, in fact, been a blessing.

The first thing she did when she woke up was wiggle her toes, seeing if she could still use her injured foot. Success. She wasn't particularly looking forward to being on crutches, however. Every other child she had gone to school with had broken at least one of their bones by the time they were ten, usually from falling out of trees they had been climbing or tumbling off their bicycles. But, though Emilie had always been sent outside to give her mother peace whenever she was home – when she wasn't doing chore are bloody chore – she had rarely run off to join her friends, of which she had had few as a child, and thus had never done anything dangerous enough to warrant a fracture. She had always been different, treated as the odd one out in school and as such left to sit by herself while the other children laughed around her.

As she had grown older, particularly in high school, she had begun defying her mother; drinking alcohol, staying out past her curfew, purposely putting herself in harm's way just to see if her parents actually gave a crap, but still her bones had remained unbroken. It had gotten so bad that her mother had sent her to a boarding school in Austria, a place only the smartest minds could get into. Her mother had wanted to fill out the application herself, figuring she was smarter than her daughter, but, when Emilie looked over the sheet, she had taken immense pride in correcting her mother's work. She had then been accepted, and had seen the boarding school as a holiday, only without her baby brother.

It had been located on a beautiful, isolated hillside; emerald green as far as the eye could see, broken only by glistening lakes and small pine forests. It had been like something out of a fairy tale. The building itself head been beautiful, too, and huge; bigger than anything Emilie had ever seen in her life. When the other children had written postcards home to their parents, Emilie had only ever addressed hers to her brother. But it hadn't lasted long. The people who had run the school had had sticks so far up their asses Emilie had been surprised when they were actually able to sit down.

They had caned the other disobedient children into submission, but Emilie had refused to be broken, being purposely rowdy and smartass just to piss them off. She had been caned so many times that she could no longer write without reopening the injuries on her hand and bleeding all over the paper. She had then been sent to work in the kitchen, but even there wasn't safe from her; she had "mixed up" the salt and sugar, putting salt in the teachers' coffee and sugar on their roasted chicken. She had promptly been expelled, and some of the other students had cheered her as she left, praising her for sticking up to the teachers, while others muttered she had just made things worse for all of them.

Her mother had never been so mad in her life, saying she was a humiliation to the family. And thus, their battles that would last well into adulthood had truly begun.

Emilie couldn't resist a small smirk at the memory, before a bout of coughing from her left reminded her the reason for remembering that. She couldn't be on crutches. How could she go back to the line, with snow up to her goddamn hips, on crutches? Either way, she knew something for sure: she would be going back to her army. After what she had been through, nobody could have blamed her for taking this as an opportunity for an easy ticket home. But she didn't want to go home. She had nothing to go home to. This was her home now. And she was going to fight for it, even on fucking crutches.


	16. What Is Happening To My Dark Heart

"Rene."

Emilie was faintly aware of the voice coming from somewhere behind her, but didn't think much of it. She was too tried for that. One of the other nurses, a beautiful black girl, had given her something for the pain a few hours ago, and now Emilie was constantly dozing off. No one had even asked her what she had been doing with the German soldier yet, of which she was thankful. She briefly wondered what they had done with Drechsler's body, but didn't even want to think about that. He was probably on the pile of corpses outside by now, with flies buzzing around him. She shuddered at the thought. And now the army was down a medic and a soldier. Things just got better and better.

"Eugene," that was Rene's voice now, "Do you need any more supplies? A plane just dropped some more, and I have some to spare."

_Eugene? _No, it was probably another Eugene. It was a common name (Emilie had never been particularly fond of it before, but, as of late, she could think of no better. Odd). But what would another Eugene be doing _here?_

As she was now strong enough to prop herself up on her elbows, she turned in her cot; much too quickly, evidently, as it sent a sharp pain shooting up her side and she cringed in pain. But it was good. She needed to keep her blood circulating, even if she couldn't walk. So she persisted, and was then lying on her stomach. Her eyes almost erupted from her head when, lo and behold, there was the beautiful Cajun – no, sorry, the _half_-Cajun. He was in an adjoining room, telling Rene what he was running low on as she placed the medicine into a box he held to his chest with both arms.

Once it was close to over-flowing, he followed Rene out of the room, seemingly struggling to hold up the heavy box. Just as he was about to make his way back up the stairs, he spotted her, and stopped with one foot still on the bottom step. Rene turned to him when his footsteps stopped, and her gaze flicked between Eugene and Emilie, head tilted slightly to the side. "Do you know her, Eugene?" she asked, absently scraping dried blood off of her fingers.

"Yes," he replied after a brief moment's hesitation, frowning, "Excuse me, Rene."

"Of course. I'm here if you need me."

Rene watched as Eugene made his way over to Emilie, before she was called over by another nurse and hurried over to a patient. The American medic set down his box of supplies beside Emilie's cot and stood over her, frown deepening. She looked up at him, remaining on her stomach for a few moments longer before slowly easing herself up into a sitting position. When she let out a wince of pain, he looked ready to help, but she waved him off and leaned back against the staircase.

"What are you doin' 'ere, miss Demont?" he asked, holding his helmet in one hand. His gaze swept over her one leg that was still extended, and stopped on her bandaged ankle. Some blood had dripped onto the cot. "What happened?"

Emilie didn't respond for a moment. She should hate him. She should hate him for what his army had done to her friends. But, no matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn't. He had probably had nothing to do with it. Finally, she muttered, leaning forward to itch the skin under the bandage where it had begun to rub, "A bullet went right through my Achilles' tendon when your men lobbed all that artillery at us."

What looked like guilt passed over his face. "I'm sorry 'bout that, ma'am," he responded softly, "They didn't have any fireworks. I guess mortars are the next best thing."

She gave a half-smile despite herself. "No one but me was hurt, thank God. Well, that's probably bad news to you," she shrugged, refusing to think about Drechsler. Before he could protest, she remembered something, and added in an urgent whisper, leaning forward, "Oh, and, Gene? Don't tell anyone here who I am. I went through Hell to get here after our aid station was… hit." She drew back, frowning slightly as she hoped their previous agreement of confidentiality still stood. "I'll be getting back to the line as soon as I can."

"You're goin' back?" he echoed, evidently alarmed, "In your condition? That's crazy talk, miss Demont."

"You sound like the doctor at the aid station," she chuckled, rolling her eyes, "I'm just peachy. All I want to do is get back to my army. They need me, and, as insane as it sounds, they… Keep me sane." Emilie raised her eyebrows, "But why would you care, exactly?"

Eugene blinked back at her calmly. "I don't want anyone to go and get themselves killed because they're too stubborn to admit they're hurt."

_Not exactly the answer I was expecting._ She was almost surprised with herself. What else had she possible been expecting? "Oh, I am stubborn," she agreed with a light laugh, "But the difference is I _know_ I'm hurt, but I'm not leaving my men out on the line without a medic."

"You're the only medic?" he cut in. Everyone, even the enemy, knew how potentially disastrous that could be.

Emilie nodded, letting out a sigh. "If you tell anyone this, I'll personally hunt you down and kill you. But, yeah, it's pretty damn hard to find any town that will welcome us with open arms, so it's taking a long time to get reinforcements. Not that we need any, besides a second medic," she added quickly, still a little suspicious.

He nodded, staring across the room, lost in thought.

Emilie rearranged herself, breaking the lull in the conversation with, "So, you survived the airstrike I warned you about. It's, uh, it's good to see you, I guess."

Eugene bowed his head, and she instantly regretted mentioning it. She should have known from personal experience to never bring up old battles with another medic. She was just about to apologise when he raised his head, his jaw set in that expression he got when he was obviously hurting, as though someone had suddenly pulled the shutters down behind his eyes. "I did," His accent seemed to thicken as his voice quietened, "But not everyone."

She swallowed, staring into his deep, dark blue eyes that could just as easily have been black. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "There was nothing I could do."

"Don't apologise," he muttered gruffly, "I don't blame _you_." She could tell he was fighting back adding 'I blame myself'. She wanted to comfort him, oh how she wanted to. But she knew there was nothing she could ever say to take away his pain, his guilt, his self-loathing. From the first moment she had met him, Emilie had seen her own over-powering emotions reflected in his eyes. All the torment.

So, instead of attempting a hopeless mission, she instead opted for trying to lighten the mood. She had always been a little awkward at that, and usually ended up babbling like a moron with half a brain cell, but she saw it as her only option. "So," she began with a forced half-smile, and Gene looked up, "Did you end up finding your scissors?"

He echoed her half-smile despite himself, though his eyes still looked distant. "As a matter of fact, miss Demont, I did," he replied, "But I had to raid a few soldier's aid kits in the process, which they weren't too happy about."

Emilie chuckled, tucking a loose strand of ginger hair behind her ear. It felt knotted to the touch, and she was suddenly self-conscious, embarrassed she may look like someone dragged through the mud by a horse for 2 kilometres. But why should she care about how she looked around him? She hadn't given it a second thought before; she rarely did. Even before the war, she hadn't usually worn makeup, while her few friends piled it on like there was no tomorrow. Of course, they had all had someone to look nice for.

"Sorry I haven't exactly looked like a ball of cherries lately," she chuckled, running both of her hands through her hair in a hopeless attempt to smooth it. This was a whole new level of curly. But it was useless, and she eventually gave up and let her hands fall back in her lap, smiling sheepishly.

Eugene shook his head, a small smile on his face that could only be described as cheeky appearing when his eyes settled once more on her face. "You do look a little like death warmed up," he commented, sounding a little amused, as though she was quite the strange creature to behold. Even with his Rudolph-like red nose from the cold, he still looked fantastic.

Emilie let out a snort, grinning. "_Warmed up?_" she repeated, "Well, I'll take that as a compliment, because I feel positively frozen."

The American medic opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get a word out, a voice from above made them both look up. A man was leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs. "Doc, get your ass up here. We need to get back to the line!"

"I'll be up in a minute," Eugene called back. With a grumble, the other soldier at the top of the stairs nodded once before disappearing from sight. Eugene looked back at Emilie, smiling apologetically, before bending down to collect his box of supplies. "Get well soon," he instructed her, and she salted mockingly back. Letting out a light chuckle, Eugene turned, bid farewell to Rene, then walked quickly back up the stairs, Emilie watching him the entire way with a pathetically wistful look on her face.

Why did she always feel so _empty_ when he left? And why did she immediately start thinking about the next time she could see him? It was foolish. And yet she couldn't shake his pretty little face from her mind for the rest of the day. At least he was a good pain-relief; her foot suddenly didn't hurt, and stayed that way for a few more hours. And then the agony returned, yet she couldn't get that dumb, thin smile off of her face. Her mother would have told her she would get wrinkles with all that grinning.


	17. One Step At A Time

Meals, if they could even be called that, weren't too exciting at the hospital: near-stale bread, water or occasionally tea, whatever k-rations the Brits or Yanks could spare and anything donated by the townspeople. Rene would sometimes come round to the conscious patients and hand them a square of chocolate she had broken off from a few bars she carried in her pocket. At least she didn't have to worry about it melting in that weather.

Still, even with the crappy food, no one complained when they ate it. They couldn't afford to be picky, even if some of the men were probably used to gourmet meals prepared by chefs their parents employed.

To Emilie, it felt strange to not be wearing her armband, or have her medic bag banging against her hips. She had hardly taken it off for more than ten minutes since she had first been in combat. She hadn't even realised how attached to them she had become.

She was glad Rene hadn't questioned her about how she knew Eugene; even with her lying skills, Emilie wasn't sure she would have been able to come up with a convincing reason. 'He's my cousin' didn't really work.

By that time, Emilie was dying for a shower. It hadn't really bothered her before, when she had been too busy running around to think about it much, but now that she was bed-ridden, her stinking clothes and itchy skin and hair were hard to ignore. It felt as though they were glued to her by sweat and filth, and it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

"Did you hear me, Emilie?"

She looked up from where she had been lying on her back, absently scratching at her arm, barely able to reach the skin through her thick clothing. Rene was standing over her, a pair of old, worn crutches at her side. Emilie frowned, pushing herself up into a sitting position awkwardly with both her hands. "No," she replied, "Sorry, what were you saying? Are those for me?" She felt a flash of disappointment. She had almost been stupid enough to believe she would be able to walk away without crutches. She should have known better than that.

"Yes," Rene's eyes flicked to the objects beside her before holding them out to Emilie. "You should try them out, get your blood circulating. It's not good to stay lying down for so many days straight; I would have given you exercises, but I've been so busy." Rene paused to wipe a hand over her sweat-beaded brow, smearing a little blood over her skin as she let out a near-defeated sigh. "Anyway, it was quite hard to find these, and they may be a little big for you, but just try them out for size and tell me how they feel." Her lips curled upwards in a forced smile.

Emilie looked from her to the crutches and back again uncertainly. She had never used them before; surely it couldn't be too hard.

"Do you need some help getting up?" Rene suggested.

Stubbornly, Emilie shook her head, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and testing her injured leg by pressing down lightly on it. She winced as the action sent a sharp pain racing up her leg. Rene looked ready to help, but Emilie, still too proud to give up and say she couldn't do it, sucked in a breath and determinately, slowly rose to her feet. She wobbled a little, feeling like an awkward flamingo as she stood there, swaying as she stood on one foot. "Give 'em to me," she hissed. Where the hell had her balance she had acquired in ballet gone?

Rene handed her the crutches, and Emilie slid them under her armpits as she had seen other people do before. Her hands gripped the part half way down. Rene had been right: they were a little too tall, but they would have to do. She stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do but still not wanting to ask for help. But, finally, tentatively, she picked them up and moved them forward, hobbling along with them, putting her weight into her hands and mainly using her uninjured foot to walk on. It felt a little like hopping. Every time her hurt foot brushed the ground, she grimaced and bit her tongue to stifle a whimper, but she fought through the searing pain. Hey, at least it wasn't infected, which was quite a surprise in this disease-ridden place.

Rene walked alongside her, slowly at first, but quickening her pace as Emilie grew in confidence. The crutches creaked as she walked. "So, they're okay?" Rene inquired, and Emilie smiled back.

"They'll do," she answered, turning with her feet in mid-air, and beginning to limp back to her bed. As soon as she reached it, she flopped back down, puffing despite the fact she had barely walked twenty feet, down the aisle with wounded men on either side of her. "That's enough for one day," she shook her head with a chuckle, "Wow, I really need to get my fitness level back up, huh?"

"It isn't a race," Rene replied, smiling, seemingly pleased, "Just take your time until you build up your strength again." Just then, a man at the end of the room, half-concealed by shadows, let out a soul-shattering wail and both of the women's heads snapped towards the sound. She sighed. "I have to go," she apologised before rushing away.

Emilie sank back down onto her pillow, trying to hide from the mangled bodies around her and block out their cries for help. Her arms lay limply by her sides, and her fingers ran over a slight bulge in her pocket. She looked down, fingers digging through her pocket until they found a piece of folded paper. She pulled it out and held it up the light. Her heart squeezed. It was the letter Julian had given her. But she wouldn't read it; it wasn't her place to. Slipping it back into her pocket where it would be more-or-less safe and shielded from the weather, she made a silent oath to herself: if she made it out of the war, the first thing she would do was visit the United States of America and give the letter to whoever it was for in person. Julian deserved at least that.

Funny. She had known the guy for less than ten minutes, and she still felt like she owed him. Well, she did. She had let him die. Because of her, that boy was dead. And this was the only way she could think of to somehow make it up to him.


	18. So Many Secrets And So Many Lies

_A/N: So, I would have made Rene's death much more gory, but, since she was a real woman, I didn't want to be too disrespectful. I really love her. Plus, I think it gives you an opportunity to imagine what it was that Emilie saw that could have traumatised her so much. _

_Enjoy. :D_

_xx_

It came in the morning. The sun had hardly been given a chance to rise.

Emilie sat in her bed, massaging her injured ankle after having just completed more exercise with the crutches, practising getting used to walking with them and such. She closed her eyes; despite the smell and occasional yelps of pain, when her eyes were closed, she could more-or-less imagine she was out of the confines of the hospital that could barely be called that. She had begun to recognise each person just by how they walked. Now, she could hear Rene walking past her, before turning and continuing down an aisle. Emilie peaked open one eye. Yes, she was right. Little things like that were the only thing keeping her from going completely mad.

That morning was quieter than usual. Almost peaceful, with most of the patients sleeping. Emilie should have sensed it couldn't last, that something dark was coming.

She had been surprised when Eddie had come down to check on her a few days ago. Of course, he had attempted to justify his visit by saying he had to take something to Headquarters anyway, but it was evident that he had meant to see her. While he had been down there, he had introduced her to a buddy of his that was a patient in the hospital; his name was William Van Patten, and he was in there with a finger that had been blown off. He had admitted that it wasn't as bad as it looked, and that he was in there more because he just wanted a relief from the terror of the front line. Emilie had felt a flash of guilt, a feeling she was beginning to get accustomed to experiencing.

"How are you feeling today, Harriet?"

Emilie didn't respond to the name at first; the only thing she thought was that perhaps she hadn't noticed another injured woman amongst the men. Then she remembered that, when she had first arrived at the hospital, Rene had asked her name, and Emilie, so used to lying, had, without any thought, let the fake name slip past her lips. She had been surprised at herself, but had reasoned that perhaps it was better if they didn't have a real name to hold to her. So she had played along with it.

She looked up and smiled, ceasing her massaging and instead using her hands to try to get her fingers through some of the knots in her auburn hair. "Getting there," she responded, shrugging. Rene was standing in front of her, wiping her blood-coated hands with a stained cloth. "Thanks again for the crutches. It makes my wild hopping look a little more purposeful." Her lips curled up into an amused smile.

Rene chuckled slightly, though the smile didn't reach her dark, saddened eyes.

Emilie's smile faded, and she tentatively reached forward to touch her hand to Rene's wrist comfortingly. "Hey, you know you're doing a lot of good here, right?"

The Belgian nurse let out a sigh, looking down then over her shoulder at the men lying in filthy cots behind her. "It's still not enough," she murmured.

Emilie was about to say something, but, before she could utter another word, a rumbling sound akin to thunder boomed close by, and every conscious, able-eared person's head snapped to stare in that direction, eyes wide and quickly filling with terror at the realisation of what it was. Everyone stopped dead. Before any instructions could be given, that all-too-familiar air-raid siren filled the air. Though the church was below ground, the drone was still deafening. Emilie could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Another bomb landed and exploded; Emilie could hear the people screaming in panic outside, and could picture them scrambling for cover. She pitied the people without bomb shelters. Without thinking, she fumbled to her feet, grabbed her crutches, and was almost at the base of the stairs, going as fast as her injured foot would allow, when Rene pulled her back by her arm.

"Where are you going?" she hissed, clearly scared. But determination shone in her eyes, seeming to give her extra life.

Emilie grimaced as another bomb fell, closer this time. "I have to help!" she screeched, snatching her arm out of Rene's grip and stumbling backwards as she lost her balance, still not completely used to being supported by the crutches. She crashed against the side of the staircase, but managed to remain standing, and hobbled back to her feet. She stared at her desperately, before her eyes flicked to the doorway that led onto the street. "And you can't stop me."

Rene shook her head, already half way up the stairs when she looked back down, eyes locking with Emilie's for a few heartbeats. "If I let you die, if I got you _killed_, I would never forgive myself," she called back, "Please, stay here."

"But it's not safe down here!" Emilie yelled back, adrenaline streaming through her veins. "We have to evacuate the patients!" But her voice was drowned out by another explosion, and it was clear Rene wasn't listening anyway; she was already nearly at the door.

But, just as she reached it, what Emilie had been dreading most became a reality. She heard it before she felt it: that eerie whistling, like screaming from a long way away. It was the sound of a bomb falling. Rene must have heard it too, as she stopped mid-stride just a few feet from the doorway, and looked up. "_Get down!_" Emilie screamed, diving for cover and ignoring the searing pain in her foot as it slammed against the grimy floor. She landed with a thud and scrambled under her bed, covering her head with her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. "God damn Germans," she breathed. It was pay back, she supposed, for what they had endured that day with the 88's. But what a time to choose to do it, when their only medic was a patient in the hospital.

The bomb hit, and exploded on impact with the towering roof; maybe the height of it would give them some relief. Rubble showered down around her, and, though common sense screamed at her to keep her eyes closed to shield her mind from the image, she had never been very good at common sense. She saw men crushed in their beds by falling chunks of brick, their screaming immediately cut off. Their screams were only that of people who knew their life was coming to an end; a death scream, one that echoed in your bones and replayed over and over in your ears.

Blood and guts spurted out, blanketing the floor. Shrapnel clattered as it fell all around her bed, and she felt her mattress heave as rubble landed on it. Dust was churned up and stung her eyes.

And then all was silent; no bombs, no screaming. Well, at least not for a few seconds as the people outside slunk uncertainly from their bunkers to find their friends and family dead on the streets. Then the wailing began. But in the church, all was quiet. Only the thudding as a few more pieces of brick fell to the ground, and the raining of dirt.

Breath coming in gasps, Emilie backed out from under her bed, forgetting to grab her crutches and instead stumbling and limping forward, using anything high enough for support. All around her, the men and women she had come to know were dead, some hit by shrapnel and killed instantly, with their bodies sprawled across the rubble, while, in other cases, only hands and feet were visible under hunks of stone. She peered through each room, listening for any cries for help, before reluctantly facing what she had been refusing to believe: they were all dead. Why, once again, had she lived? Was God punishing her?

Then she turned to the stars, and was confronted with the sight of collapsed stairs, with wooden beams and rubble smothering them. Dragging herself back to her destroyed bed, where she had only been seated, blissfully unaware, a few minutes ago, she scooped up her crutches and held them both under one arm as she began to pick her way up the stairs. It was soon obvious that she would have to crawl up. Her mind was blank as she began up it, on all fours, knees scraping the jagged edges and blood welling on her scratched palms. No tears fell. She couldn't feel _anything_. It was too horrible to comprehend, too much for her body to handle, and her emotions just sort of… shut down. But she knew that, sooner or later, it would wear off, and she would be faced with the full force of her grief.

Once she reached the top, she was about to make her way out onto the streets to face the music and adopt the role of nurse to treat the wounded, when she noticed there was something soft under her right leg. She stopped. She knew only one thing that felt like that; warm, but slowly beginning to grow cooler. Emilie looked down and clambered to her feet where there was space, throwing some rubble aside, slowly at first but with more speed and strength as she went on. She had to know for sure. It couldn't be. No. No, no, _no_. No. Emilie had warned her. She would have sought shelter. This was just another poor soul caught in the fray who had run into the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course, that didn't make it better. It just made it more bearable.

But she knew in her heart what she was trying to convince herself of was ultimately just a string of lies.

As she shoved aside another piece of brick, a face came into view beneath her, and her breath hitched in her throat. Emilie stared at the dead woman before her, unable to do anything for what must have been at least a minute. Then, finally, she reached forward and gently closed Rene's eyes. As was her morbid tradition, Emilie whispered, "You didn't deserve this. It was my fault, all my fault. I'm so sorry. But you are a hero, Rene, and I am alive because of you. You are an inspiration. I will not let you be forgotten."

That felt like more of a curse than a blessing. And, ultimately, it looked as though Rene's efforts had been in vain: everyone was dead. Still no tears fell. She was too hurt for that. She was just about to turn and leave when she remembered something.

"Oh. And my name is Emilie Elizabeth Demont."


	19. Going Back

Emilie sat by one of the fires that still burned from the bombing, staring into the flames as it sent sparks flying into the air. All around her, people were laying bodies onto piles, while others dragged their departed loved ones to bury elsewhere. The smell was already sickening. There was not a lot she could do for anyone; she didn't have her medic bag, all the medicine in the hospital and in other people's houses had been destroyed. She had been able to set a few dislocated limbs and stop some bleeding by ripping clothes off of corpses, but that was the extent of it.

She had never felt so utterly useless.

The heat of the flames dried up her tears that ran down her cheeks as she sobbed silently, her entire body shuddering with the failed effort of keeping it all contained. Her arms were wrapped around her knees that she brought up to rest under her chin. Her crutches lay beside her, encrusted with blood.

Anyone that wasn't in the army couldn't understand. They only saw the pictures that the press was permitted to print, usually ones of soldiers with their arms flung over each other's shoulders, grinning triumphantly. They viewed the men as heroes, but still they continued to laugh, party, enjoy their lives while other people suffered. They didn't understand. No one understood. Not even the other soldiers truly knew what the medics felt.

"Why don't you just let me die already?" she yelled to the heavens above, not caring who cared. No one even spared her a second glance. It was a normal question. "What have I ever done to you? Take me, not them!" She lowered her head as another sob shook her shoulders. "Take _me_," she whispered.

When she opened her eyes, a pair of boots with trousers bloused into them caught her attention, despite her vision being blurred by tears. Wiping her eyes, she glanced to the side to see a man bend down to drag out the cloth Rene used to wear in her dark hair. She was just about to yell at the man to put that down, thinking they were taking it because of the material rationing. But then she caught sight of that luscious black hair she had found herself fantasizing about running her fingers through, and she let her jaw shut.

But, unlike usual, she didn't call out to him. Eugene looked so hurt, staring at the blue material he clutched in one hand, trailing his other over it. Emilie hated herself for the prickle of jealousy she felt. Rene was _dead_. What was she becoming? Demons looked like Angels compared to her. Demon. Demont. There was a frightening similarity, and Emilie felt just like one. The harbinger of death and destruction.

Either way, she didn't need to make her presence known of her own accord, as Eugene turned and his pained eyes found her anyway. An assortment of emotions passed over his face in a split second, before it settled back into his normal hurt, closed-off demeanour: shock, relief, confusion.

He began in her direction, tucking the material into his pocket. She didn't rise, instead craned her neck to look up at him as he stopped in front of her, before turning her gaze back to the fire in front of her. "What are you doing here?" she asked, voice coming out more gruff than she had intended. But she honestly couldn't find it in herself to care.

Eugene remained silent for a few seconds, before crouching down so he was just a few centimetres taller than her when, at full height, he was at least four inches higher. "I didn't realise what had happened," he admitted, and his drawl comforted her slightly, eased her pain but at the same time made her want to wail even louder. His gaze bore into her. At first, it took everything in her to keep her eyes set firmly ahead. But, eventually, she gave in and her eyes flicked to him. He went on, voice more gentle than before, "I… I thought you were dead."

"I'm not that lucky," she growled, resisting the urge to ask why he would have cared if she had been killed. They hardly knew each other. But she couldn't even imagine how she would feel if she discovered her had died. The mere thought sent a chill running down her spine.

"What?"

Emilie looked at him pointedly, saw her own despair reflected in his deep blue eyes. "You know what I mean, Eugene," she murmured, "You know what it's like to not be able to save someone." She lent in, cringing slightly as her ankle twanged, voice dark, "You know what it's like to want to _die_." She must have seemed insane and over-dramatic. Maybe she really had snapped. She couldn't tell. But she sure as Hell knew she wasn't completely sane anymore, not that she had been completely fine in the first place, but she knew no one that had been in a war was.

Eugene studied her eyes. She saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Then, finally, he looked away and rose to his feet. "Things get easier." She could tell he was lying through his teeth, but she didn't reprimand him for patronising her. He was just trying to make her feel better, and, surprisingly, he wasn't failing miserably. His mere presence was enough to ease her slightly, but not as much as usual.

"Not in my experience," she replied, tossing a small stone she had been playing with into the fire. "But thanks."

He was silent for a moment, before lowering his voice and asking, "Do you still want to get back to your line, miss Demont?"

Emilie frowned and looked up, squinting at the sun behind him. Why was it always behind him? It made him look like he had a fucking halo. But one that burned her eyes to look at. She nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "More than anything." _What's the point anymore?_ Half of her wanted to stay and help bury Rene, but she would never forgive herself if more of her men died because she stayed in the town.

Gene nodded slowly, and he seemed to get lost in his own thoughts for a moment. She was just about to say something when he told her simply, "Wait here. I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Just stay put."

Rolling her eyes, she forced a smirk and nodded. He nodded slightly, before turning on his heel and walking away briskly, simply glancing at a passing soldier when the other man greeted him. Eugene looked back once, catching Emilie's eye, before breaking into a small jog and rounding a corner, one hand held instinctively, protectively over his medic bag and the other holding his helmet with the symbol of the _506__th_ under his arm.

Her frown deepened as she waited for him to return, forcing her eyes to not stray to where a few people were picking their way inside the destroyed church and dragging out Rene's body. A middle-aged woman was walking around, holding a tray with cups of tea and coffee placed on them, distributing them to people to help with the anxiety. Emilie noticed the woman's hands were shaking, spilling some of the tea as she raised one hand to wipe away a tear that had begun to trickle down her face and collect on her chin.

When the blonde-greying woman reached her, Emilie smiled and shook her head. But the woman seemed determined, insisting in broken English that it would help with the shock. Not wanting to make matters worse, Emilie struggled to her feet and looked over the tray. Only coffee was left, clearly luke-warm at best as no steam was rising from its depths.

"Got any tea left?" Emilie asked in German, mildly surprising the woman. But it didn't last long; not many emotions were available in a time of grief.

The woman shook her head, repositioning her hold on the tray. "No. I've used it all up. This is the last of the coffee, too. The Americans like it."

Trying to lighten the mood, Emilie chuckled and replied, "Even now, I'm not going to sink so low as to actually drink coffee. Black gunk, if you ask me."

It didn't work. The woman's stony expression didn't lighten; if anything, it darkened, and Emilie found herself wishing she had kept her big mouth shut. "You can't afford to be picky," she told her, glowering, "Do you want it or not? If you don't, there are other people who will and I had better take it to them before the coffee goes completely cold."

"Thank you, ma'am, but no. It was nice of you to offer, though." She smiled, but the woman simply began to walk away. _Well, that'll teach me to try and be funny at times like these._

At that moment, a car ground to a halt on the other side of the bonfire, and Emilie turned to see Eugene jumping out of the driver's seat, looking from side to side, before walking towards her. He picked up her crutches and handed them to her. She tilted her head to the side, gesturing to the army jeep. "What are you up to, Gene?"

"I'm taking you back to your line," he answered, as nonchalant as though he were discussing the weather (which, quite honestly, had a lot to be desired) and placed a hand lightly on her back, guiding her forwards as quickly as she could manage. But she stopped beside the jeep, turning to face him.

"Is the cold messing with your noggin, Roe?" she asked, staring at him in disbelief. Though he appeared completely calm to the untrained eye, she could see nervousness just under his skin. "You'll be going into the heart of enemy territory, don't you understand that? _Enemy_ territory. They'll shoot you dead like…" She bit her tongue to stop herself from mentioning Drechsler. Eugene didn't need to know what his own army had done. Her warnings felt familiar. She had given Drechsler the same speech, and look where that had gotten her.

He met her gaze evenly. "I know the risks, sergeant," he replied, "But I can drop you off a little way from where the Germans are, drive down a road that no sentries are guarding. You can show me the safest route. You said you wanted this more than anything, miss Demont."

"I know what I said, _corporal_," She hadn't fully registered that, in the army, she was of a higher rank than him. Of course, he was a paratrooper, so she could never even hope to compete with that. "But this technically counts as treason. And where did you even get this?" She jerked her head towards the car behind her, "Who would give it to you if they knew what you were doing?"

A glint appeared in his eyes, that, up until then, had seemed so empty and lost, clearly still mourning the loss of Rene and all the others. "They don't know I've taken it. If anyone asks, I'll say I'm going back to the line."

Emilie let out a laugh despite herself. "Well, we really are knee-deep in this shit, aren't we? Fantastic." She shook her head, sighing and rubbing her forehead with her fingers. "Will I have to hide under a canopy or something, like in the films when they're sneaking someone out? Or will I put on a wig and pretend to be a man? Or maybe I can disguise my accent and say I'm a German prisoner of war. Hm?" She rolled her eyes once again.

"None of those. Just look like you know where yo' goin' and you shouldn't raise anyone's suspicions. If anyone asks, let me do the talkin'." She was about to protest some more, when Eugene put his helmet back on. "Now, we don't got much time. Hop in."

Muttering to herself about how ridiculous this was and hoping to Hell the Germans would recognise her with him and not shoot Eugene, she limped around to her side of the jeep and, once Gene had opened the door and played the real-life gentleman (to which she made a smart-ass remark about them not being on their way to the prom), she did indeed hop in, favouring her injured foot. It felt strange to sit on that side of the car; she had spent the entire time she had had cars in her life, which, granted, hadn't been long since her family hadn't been able to afford one for a while, with the steering wheel being on the right and the passenger seat on the left. Everything American was so topsy-turby. And she had to admit she kind of liked it. Conventional was boring, anyway.

The back of the jeep where wounded men were placed was covered in dried and fresh blood alike, and Emilie cringed. She had helped cause that.

As the jeep rumbled into life, she resisted the urge to sink low into her seat to attempt to hide from the prying eyes of the Americans around her that she had never really been fearful of until then. Instead, she raised her chin and looked like she had a purpose that wasn't related to treason, staring straight ahead. She thought she must have looked ten-times as suspicious.

There was one man stationed at the closed gate that lead out of town, lounging against the brick wall with his rifle resting against his thigh. He stood as Eugene pulled the car up. The other American walked forward and rested one hand on the side of the jeep, looking up at Gene with a crooked smile.

"Where you off to, Doc?" he asked with a New York accent. Then he noticed Emilie and peered past him, "And who's this? Are you gonna introduce me to your cute, little friend?"

Emilie dug her nails into her palms to stop herself from snapping at him and blowing her cover. She just smiled charmingly and allowed Eugene to do the talking, as he had told her to do. For once, she was actually following instructions. It shocked even her.

"She was in the hospital when it was bombed," he told the other soldier, voice clear and unwavering, "I have orders to take her to the make-shift hospital for civilians over by the next town. They want a medic to do it, so I can tell the surgeons how far along her recovery is and how to care for her." He gestured to her bandaged ankle, and she gave a dramatised grimace of pain, clutching her leg.

The other man pursed his lips and nodded, before his face broke into an obnoxious smile once more, eyes flicking to Emilie, who returned his gaze unflinchingly. He walked past the car to the tall gate, unlocking the iron chains that had been wrapped around them; Emilie couldn't help wondering what would happen in the panic of an evacuation. It would be a blood bath, with people crushing each other in their desperation to scramble over the locked gates. The thought made her uneasy, and she shoved it aside.

The gate creaked and groaned as the soldier pushed it slowly open, standing by it as Eugene drove through. "Look out for yourself, Doc!" he called after them, beginning to close the gate again, "It's crawling with damn Krauts out there, and we can't spare a medic."

Once they were out of hearing range, Eugene glanced at Emilie and his lips suggested the faintest hint of a smile, an almost shy one. "He's from the 463rd Field Artillery Battalion," he told her, eyes flicking back to the road, "A kind way of puttin' it is that the paratroopers don't exactly get along that well wit' the regular soldiers. You know, competition and all that. He seems to have some kind of a personal vendetta against me or somethin'." He shrugged.

"Well, understandably," she replied sarcastically with a light laugh, "You're absolutely _awful_ to be around." She grinned over at him and he let out a small chuckle. That little sound that was enough to send her heart fluttering and put dancing butterflies into her stomach for some unknown, stupid reason.

Then her face grew serious and she looked out the other side of the car, the freezing wind whipping her face and battering her hair. She pulled her coat tighter around her. "I'm sorry about Rene," she murmured, and felt Eugene tense beside her and the jeep speed up a little. "I… Well, there's not a whole lot I can say, really."

"Yeah," his voice was soft, his eyes set straight ahead, "Me, too."


	20. Snow And Insanity

The road was dreadful to walk along, let alone drive on. It was coated with black ice and snow that people had attempted to clear away but had failed. It was piled along the sides of the road, and some had over-flowed back onto it. A few pine trees had been blown onto the side of the road, their tips just jutting out onto it. Eugene had to slow down in order to manoeuvre around them, and she could hear his shallow breaths, see how much he was concentrating and, though he would never admit it, how afraid he was. War they could handle, but black ice was a real killer.

Finally, they broke off the main road onto a narrower dirt one that ran alongside the woods. But that didn't help ease their nerves; no, far from it, it only increased them. She expected Eugene had never been this far into enemy territory, while it was a regular practice for Emilie. She knew the Germans, knew her people, knew, for the most part, where and when they would be patrolling. But medics weren't told that much to start with (she learnt most of her information from eavesdropping and flirtation) and, now that she had been away for so long, she knew even less. No doubt so much had changed, including their plans.

She stared into the trees for any dark shapes in the heavy fog as Eugene drove on, and she cursed the loud noise the jeep made. How the hell were they supposed to be sneaky with that racket giving them away? Oh, they really hadn't thought this through.

After several minutes of terror – Emilie worried more about Eugene's safety than her own – she finally recognised their surroundings. "Pull over," she instructed, voice barely more than a whisper. She didn't know why she even bothered keeping her voice down.

He looked over at her uncertainly before nodding and bringing the already creeping car to a halt, spraying up dirt and pebbles as they got caught in the tyres. "You'll be alright on your own from here?" he asked, voice also low so that it sounded a little husky. God _damn_. "I would walk you further, but… Somehow I don't think that would end well, for either of us."

Hesitating, she finally nodded and slid out of the seat, landing awkwardly and heavily on the road. Turning, she gathered up her crutches and slid them under her arms, limping around to face Eugene. She let out a sigh, smiling though she could tell he would see right through her façade. "Thank you, Gene," she murmured, feeling a strange aching in her chest at the prospect of leaving him to go back to the line. No. That was what she wanted. She glanced over her shoulder to the ominous-looking forest, that was filled with an eerie, unsettling quiet. She looked back. "Be careful on your way back. Wish me luck."

"Glad to help," he replied, and she could tell his muscles were tensed even through his bulky uniform. "It's what I'm here to do, but… Sometimes, I think I do the exact opposite." He looked down and she felt a flash of sympathy. She could relate to what he was feeling.

"Don't talk like that."

He looked up, eyes wide, the milky sunlight reflecting off of them. Emilie once again felt as though he could see directly into her soul. But they both seemed to realise that time was of the essence at the same time. "Why would you need me to wish you luck? You're going back to your own army."

Emilie didn't reply, simply blinked at him knowingly, before turning and making her way gingerly down the snow-covered slope at the side of the road. She could feel him watching her the entire way, to make sure she got down safely. When she did, and found herself knee-deep in freshly-fallen snow, she glanced back to salute him. He did the same. When she turned away and began to struggle deeper into the dark, gloomy forest where the light didn't seem to reach properly, she heard him start the engine, do a brisk U-turn and drive away until the rumble of the car disappeared into the distance and the jeep was swallowed up by the fog.

Now she was well and truly alone. Not even bird song accompanied her. She could see her breath. Half of her cursed herself for ever wanting to come back to this cursed, wretched, death-stricken place, but another felt like this was a home-coming. Oh, yes. Clearly, there was not a trace of sanity left in her petit body.


	21. Reunited

"Halt!"

A little way ahead, Emilie could see the outline of a German soldier, his gun pointed straight at her. She stopped and narrowed her eyes against the wind, taking in the way he stood, the way he wore his helmet, the way he held his rifle. She was quickly able to make out who it was, and called in Deutsch, hoping her words weren't carried away by the near-gale, "Kuhn, is that you? It's sergeant Emilie Demont."

She saw him pause, then slowly lower his weapon, straightening and taking a hesitant step towards her. "Emilie? We… We thought you and Drechsler had abandoned us. We were told to shoot you both on sight." She could tell he was in the midst of an internal battle, confused about whether to follow orders and shoot her dead, or to welcome her back with open arms. "Where were you? Where's Drechsler?"

As Emilie moved closer and Kuhn became more than a silhouette, she saw him frown. "And where did you get those crutches?"

She laughed. "That's quite a questionnaire, my friend." When he didn't smile like he usually would have, she grew more serious, face now sad as she remembered Drechsler. "Drechsler thought that the only way of saving me was to take me to the hospital the Americans had in town. I've been there since, but he was…" She swallowed painfully but continued on, though her voice cracked a little, "He was killed as soon as he drove through the gates."

He stared at her in disbelief. Kuhn was the infamous joker of the company, but this was too much for him. "Drech… Drechsler's dead?"

"Yes." Her voice came out cold, but she refused to show weakness in front of her men, and her protective bars that kept everyone else out slammed over her once more. For the first time, she found she didn't like it. Before he could say anything more, she continued on. "I'll tell everyone what happened once I get back to the line."

Kuhn held his ground for a few moments, and she thought he was going to refuse. But, finally, he nodded and jerked his head, indicating for her to follow him. They walked side by side, but she was gutted to see he put quite a considerable amount of space between them, when they would usually have walked shoulder-to-shoulder. So much had changed. God knows what they had gone through while she was gone; she felt like an outsider.

They walked in awkward silence until Emilie cleared her throat and looked at him. "So, what were you doing in the woods? We haven't captured them, have we?" When usually she would have been proud, now the thought of anyone else being killed in order to do so, Americans or Germans, made her feel nauseous right to her core. When she had first found Kuhn, it had been just into American territory; Eugene had dropped her into the German woods, but, in order to get back to the line, she had had to pass through the Yanks' land.

He stared straight ahead as he answered. "No. I was on a patrol to see how deep we could infiltrate the Americans before we met one of their patrols. But I…" He gritted his teeth, "Lost my way in the fog. They'll find their way back, though. No guns have been fired."

Emilie nodded, wishing she could shove her hands into her pockets and once again cursing the crutches. They caught in the snow constantly and made her stumble. Kuhn stopped to wait for her at first, but after the third or fourth time, he just walked on and let her catch up to him in her own time. She finally bit the bullet and asked the question she had been avoiding: "How many men have died since I've been gone?"

She saw him stiffen and winced inwardly. "The surgeons managed to get the aid station rebuilt and salvaged some medicinal supplies. Thankfully, we seem to have the Americans hiding with their tails between their legs. The _cowards_," he spat out the word like it was poison. "No man has been killed by a bullet, but a few have lost their fingers and noses in the cold. One has pneumonia. Everyone is running out of food." He paused, furrowing his brow before continuing, quieter than before, "A private from another company accidentally shot one of our own when he was drunk, and his commanding officer had him killed."

She drew in a sharp breath. "Who were the men?"

"The one from the other company was Amsel, a man I was not acquainted with. Bergmann was the man in our own."

Emilie had only spoken to Bergmann once or twice when she had checked his hands for frostbite, but still it hurt. He had been an older man than the rest, almost thirty. To be killed in such a pointless way… And, naturally, his parents would be told he died a hero, serving his country, when really he was shot by a drunken soldier under friendly fire. She should have been there to help him. Even if she couldn't have done anything, she still should have _been_ there.

"I should warn you," Kuhn broke into her thoughts, "I don't know how the men will react to being reunited with you. All I'm saying is…" He met her gaze. "Be prepared for the worst. Eberhardt, the replacement, had been poisoning their minds with the thought that you are a traitor. For a new-recruit, he is quite persuasive when he wants to be. The men are divided; half have rallied together to defend you, but the others… Well, the others think of you as nothing more than a deserter. And hearing that you spent time amongst the Americans won't exactly help your cause, especially when Eberhardt already believes you to me an American sympathiser." He glanced at her. "You aren't, are you? You are Australian, but that does not mean you support the Americans, or am I mistaken?"

"Of course I'm not!" she snapped, struggling to believe what she was hearing. After all she had done for them! Eberhardt's name translated to 'as strong as a boar' in German, and he was certainly proving himself to be. But her zodiac sign was Taurus: the bull. And boars, no matter how wild, could always be defeated by bulls. "Would you have rather I died? Going to the Americans was the only option! And, besides, I am the only one who has been right in the heart of them, aren't I? Isn't that at all valuable?" She shook her head, struggling to control her fury and over-whelming sense of betrayal, "I'm sorry, Kuhn. I just can't believe they would turn against me and follow Eberhardt, of all people." She paused, almost dreading the answer to the question she was about to ask, "What does our CO think? Whose side is he on?"

He chuckled for the first time since she had been reunited with him. "He has been defending you the entire time, Emilie. That has led Eberhardt to almost turn against him, and I almost wish he would head a mutiny, to give our CO cause to expel him from the army."

She couldn't help feeling slightly flattered at the thought that her CO, the man who she had given no rest and who she thought despised her, had, in fact, supported her in her great time of need.

...

_A/N: Sorry if it seems like there's a lack of action or plot development; mainly between Emilie and Eugene. But just wait! Ahaha. xx_


	22. Found People To Love And Let Them Drown

"I should probably go ahead to warn them."

Emilie stopped and looked back at Kuhn when he spoke up, who had also halted, allowing a sprinkle of snow to land on his broad shoulders. Her heart sank. He was treating her as though she was an intruder, an unwelcome guest that needed an escort to the camp. But, tight-lipped, she nodded. They had been following the woods around to the German Front, careful to avoid the American line. Now she could see her company, mere black dots in the distance, but there all the same. The sight almost made her run towards them as fast as her legs would carry her. She so desperately wanted to be with them.

He was just preparing to leave, when he turned back, looking her up and down worriedly. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to speak. "Um, also," he began, using one hand to gesture vaguely towards her. Emilie looked down at her clothes. "You may want to take off that coat. If they think you've been getting more comfort than the rest of us… Well, that may not go down very well. It would be better to show your uniform, if you're still wearing it."

"_Comfort?_" she snapped, glaring at him incredulously, "Kuhn, you clearly have no idea what I've been through."

"And you'll have your chance to explain just what you've endured," he assured her, speaking slowly and quietly as though she were a moron, "But, please. I know it will be cold, but just for now. Promise me, it's for the best." His brown eyes were almost pleading.

Emilie knew he was right, even if it hurt to admit it. Grumbling to herself, she shrugged out of the coat and was met by even more freezing air than she had already been feeling. "Happy?" She held up the coat, folded it hurriedly and carelessly, and folded it over one of her arms. With a half-smile, Kuhn nodded.

"Wait here," he instructed her, before hurrying away. The snow was soft, not crunchy, and made little sound as he walked. The crackling noise came from his lower pants, which had frozen a little and had a thin layer of ice coating them. She drew in a breath. She really had been living the high life compared to them.

With a small sigh, Emilie hopped backwards on her crutches, distributing some of her weight onto the thin trunk of a tree that she leaned against. Her bones ached with the cold, and she couldn't feel her nose. Lifting a gloved hand, she rubbed at it, trying to get some blood back into it.

It only took about ten minutes until Kuhn came back. But he wasn't alone. He was trailing behind three other armed soldiers, looking at her as though to beg for forgiveness as they pointed their guns at her. Emilie slowly raised her arms over her head in a show of surrender, her crutches resting against her sides.

"Follow us," one of the men, Hinkel, barked. He was standing at the front of the group. Usually, he was funny and kind, always there to cheer you up if you needed it. But now, his eyes were dark and emotionless, lips partially open as though he were a vicious dog preparing to attack with fangs bared. The pale sunlight reflected off the snow underfoot and glistened on his gun that he still had aimed at her.

As Emilie's gaze travelled over the men before her, she felt anger well up inside her when her eyes found Eberhardt, staring at her from just behind Hinkel with a smug expression on his face. But what really caught her off-guard and made her teeth clench together was the fact that, tucked into his uniform's grey jacket, was Edelweiss. The mark of a true soldier. He had no right to be wearing that with such pride; it tarnished the name of every soldier that had worn one before, who had actually been worthy of the symbol.

"Where'd you get that?" she asked, trying her hardest to appear nonchalant and cheerful as she pointed at the white flower. Hinkel's grip on his gun tightened.

Eberhardt glanced down at the Edelweiss, and he smiled. "Oh, this? Well, miss—"

"_Sergeant_," she corrected him abruptly, irritation at his blatant disregard for her superior rank making her voice come out more harshly than she had intended.

His arrogant smile didn't waver. "Miss," he continued, putting emphasis on the degrading word, "Since you asked so nicely, I got this Edelweiss at the top of the tree line on the Alps. It was hard and tiresome and very physically-strenuous to get it, but, here it is."

Emilie blinked, smirking. "Really? You got it on the Alps? Well, that's funny, because you weren't wearing it last time I saw you, and, unless you've suddenly become the world's fastest runner and nipped over there in a flash, I would say you haven't been to the Alps recently." She returned his obnoxious smile. "Am I mistaken?"

His face fell for the briefest of moments as he seemed to realise the error in his story, but he didn't let it get him down for long. He suddenly seemed so much more confident and self-assured. And she hated him even more for it. "Oh, you got me… What was your name again?" She just glared at him, but he held his ground. "Ah, yes, _Demont_. Well, silly me! Yes, you're right, I completely forgot. One of my good friends gave it to me."

"Isn't the whole point of it that you have to get it yourself?"

"Well, as you pointed out, I haven't _been_ to the Alps recently, so I haven't _gotten_ a chance to get one for myself. But, since the other soldier thought I was good enough to give it to me, I'll take it that I earned it fair and square."

Before Emilie could retaliate with a snide comment, Hinkel took a step forward, half-masking Eberhardt behind him. "We don't have time for this, Demont. Come with us."

Eberhardt smiled, placing a hand on Hinkel's shoulder. "Relax. All in good time, my friend. There seems to be a lull in the fighting, so no hurry."

No _hurry?_ There was always hurry in war! Caught with your thumb up your ass could mean death, not for just you but for the people around you, too. But she didn't say anything; if they were too stupid to realise they weren't invincible, she wasn't about to point it out to them. Let them learn it the hard way – they should have already, anyway.

To her surprise, Hinkel nodded once and stepped back, eyes still locked on Emilie and his fingers gripping his gun so tight she was sure they would have been completely white, if they weren't concealed by his thick gloves. "Taking orders from a _private_ now, are we?" she asked, more calmly than she felt, raising her eyebrows pointedly at Eberhardt.

"Actually, I'm a corporal now," Eberhardt spoke up, fiddling with the broach on the collar of his jacket that displayed the symbol of a corporal. He wasn't lying, for once. Emilie inwardly chastised herself for not spotting that sooner. But the point still stood: how could a _corporal_ be commanding ranking officers? It made no sense, but, then again, little made sense in war. Still, that didn't make it right.

"Rank doesn't define us," Eberhardt continued, speaking as though he were a politician delivering a speech. Hinkel seemed to lap it up. "No, it is just a word, a symbol, an illusion, if you will. Wouldn't life in the armed forces be so much better if we were all the same?"

"No!" snapped Emilie, forgetting she was supposed to remain calm, to not put any more power into Eberhardt's hands. "Are you kidding me? It would be a riot. And who are you to speak that way? Care to tell me that?"

"I'm the man willing to think outside the box."

"You're no more than a boy!"

It was Kuhn who spoke now, making everyone turn to face him. Eberhardt's piercing gaze lingered on Emilie for a moment longer, making her skin crawl, before his eyes flicked to the other man, too. "We really need to take her back," Kuhn reminded them, frowning though he still seemed rather nervous at interfering with their struggle for dominance.

Emilie raised her head. "I think that's a wonderful idea."


	23. Second Chances

They walked in relative silence. As Emilie had expected, Eberhardt took the lead, striding ahead, brandishing his gun. Kuhn and Hinkel walked on either side of her, as though she were an animal that was going to bolt at any minute. She had to clench her teeth to stop her from saying anything. She refused to let her crutches slow her down, despite the fact walking through snow in them was almost impossible.

Beside her, Hinkel stared straight ahead, not sparing her a second glance. She could see he was tensed by the rigidness of the muscles in his neck.

"What happened to you, Hinkel?" she murmured, leaning in. She caught herself watching the back of Eberhardt's head nervously, as if she was afraid he would hear her. Since when did she care what he thought? She sure as Hell wasn't afraid of _him_, just of the influence he had over people.

Hinkel remained quiet, staring straight ahead, for a few more moments, before finally letting out a defeated sigh and looking down at her. She could have sworn she saw sorrow in his eyes, as though the last thing on Earth he wanted to be doing was following Eberhardt, but he didn't have the courage to stand up to him. "I believe in what he's saying," he muttered back, shrugging. Then his eyes grew hard once more, cold, and he hissed, "And you have no right to say otherwise, _woman_."

Emilie drew in a deep breath, shaking her head sadly. "Then God help you, you fool."

"What did you just call me?"

"You heard me."

From out of the corner of her eye, she saw Kuhn shoot her a warning glance, clearly telling her to shut up and not make matters worse, for any of them. She knew he was right, and fell silent, concentrating instead on her walking.

As they got closer to the foxholes, Emilie could faintly hear the soldiers listening to different German radio-stations, particularly Arnhem Annie, that broadcasted propaganda to the Americans, mocking, insulting, offering that, if the Yanks surrendered, they could move into Germany and live in comfort for the remainder of the war, and said "you can listen to our music, but you can't walk in our streets". Most of the Germans there didn't speak English, so couldn't understand her for the most part, but the ones that did speak the language translated it to their comrades. Emilie could also hear them reading aloud from leaflets that the German army had dropped to the Americans in Holland, entitled _'Why Fight For The Jews?'_, that had been translated into Deutsch. The mere thought of the leaflets set her blood on fire; she had no hatred for the Jewish people. Fucking Nazis. And she knew for a fact that few of the soldiers in her company actually supported Hitler – so why were they reading it?

"Ah, music to my ears." Eberhardt remarked dreamily.

There was her answer.

As they got closer, Emilie could just see a few men awaiting their arrival through the fog. Squinting, she could recognise her CO, but struggled to make out the second figure standing beside him. But, as they continued to make their way through the snow, she was able to put a name to the face she saw. Her breath hitched in her throat.

General Theodor Tolsdorf, the thirty-five year old Prussian commander of the LXXXII Corps and currently in command of the 340th Volksgrenadier Division over in the Bois Jacques; also known as Tolsdorf the Mad, because of his recklessness with his own life and with the lives of his soldiers. He had almost set the record for advancement in the Wehrmacht, and had been wounded nearly eleven times. She had never met him personally, but he knew that he rarely even acknowledged men of a lesser rank than him. So what was he doing there, poised to greet a mere sergeant and woman?

She swallowed. Eberhardt snapped off a salute and stood at attention in front of the two officers, as did Kuhn and Hinkel. Emilie also stopped briefly to salute, before weaving around Eberhardt to stand at the front of the small group, much to the others obvious chagrin. But they said nothing; even Eberhardt didn't dare speak up.

Tolsdorf raised his eyebrows at Emilie; perhaps he hadn't realise he would be meeting a woman, perhaps he was shocked by the fact she was on crutches, or maybe he was surprised by the sight of a sergeant having enough confidence to face them directly, seemingly without fear. Oh, they had no idea. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She was just happy the bitter cold gave an excuse for her shaking hands.

"Sir," she addressed her CO, looking him directly in the eyes. He nodded once in return, but she could see the relief on his face. Emilie then turned her head to look at the man beside him. "General. It's an honour."

No one said anything for a few seconds as they waited for the General to speak; he seemed to enjoy the tension that crackled in the air, the power he held. Even her CO risked a glance at him. Then, finally, Tolsdorf spoke, his foreign accent something Emilie hadn't encountered before. It seemed like she was being expose to a wide array of different accents recently. "Sergeant Demont. Follow me to somewhere you, I and your commanding officer can speak in privacy." He pointed at Kuhn, who froze. "And, you. Say nothing about Sergeant Demont to the other men. We can't afford anymore gossip around here." Kuhn nodded fearfully. Tolsdorf's gaze swept over the other Hinkel and Eberhardt, before marching away, not even bothering to address them. That must have been a major blow to Eberhardt's ego, or maybe he would use it as further proof why there should be no ranks in the army. Who knew what went on in his twisted, little mind.

Tolsdorf lead them away; the men in their foxholes around them had fallen silent, watching intently, eyes glued to Emilie disbelievingly. Only the music pouring from the small field radios and the wind filled the quiet, before their whispering began:

"Is that really her?"

"Where did she get the crutches?"

"Where has she been?"

"Where's Drechsler?"

The General didn't spare them a second glance, while a scorching glare from the CO didn't even manage to silence the hubbub for more than a few seconds. Emilie glanced at them and smiled, pausing to offer a tentative wave before continuing on after the other men. A few returned the uncertain wave, Zimmermann amongst them who gave it a little more eagerly than the rest, while others just narrowed their eyes suspiciously.

Tolsdorf took them into a small tent that had been set up behind the line; both that and the aid station had been moved backwards after the bombing, out of the range of the American artillery. As they passed the aid station, the doctor poked his head out of the flap, eyes widening as he spotted her. She was relieved to see a relatively friendly face, which surprised her, as she had spent the entire time since he had first arrived bickering with him. And she didn't even know his name.

As soon as they were inside the tent, the General took a seat at a makeshift desk that had been erected, pulling a half-empty bottle of alcohol from the side and pouring a small glass. Both she and her CO stood at attention before him; it was an amusing sight, seeing her CO sucking up to someone else.

"Would you like a drink?" Tolsdorf asked, looking up only briefly to gesture to the bottle before taking a sip.

"No, thank you, sir," they both replied in unison. In reality, Emilie was dying for a drink. A lot of drinks. A helluva lot of _strong_, horribly bitter drinks. But she had to remain coherent; she had an impressive tolerance of alcohol, but who knew? The General would only have drunk something befitting of his prized rank.

Tolsdorf grunted, pushing the glass to the side before looking up, folding his fingers together and leaning back in his chair. "Well, then, let's get down to business, shall we?"

Emilie hoped he couldn't see how nervous she was. She nodded, wanting him to tell them they were able to stand at ease. But he seemed to like seeing them like that: unable to disobey an order, but struggling all the same. Then, finally, he gestured that they were able to relax, and Emilie stifled a relieved sigh, repositioning her crutches.

"So, sergeant Demont," Tolsdorf began, studying her with an almost bored expression, "That man…" His eyes flicked to her CO. "What was his name?"

"Kuhn, sir."

Tolsdorf nodded. "Yes, thank you." He turned back to Emilie, blinking slowly, studying her long enough to make her uncomfortable, before talking once more. "Kuhn told me you were taken to the American hospital in Bastogne by a comrade after being wounded and nursed back to health there, and that that same comrade died delivering you there. Is that true?"

At the mention of Drechsler , Emilie tensed, but nodded all the same. "Yes, sir." She gestured to her crutches.

"But what I don't understand is why the enemy would care for you." He didn't seem to believe her. Indeed, he appeared a little suspicious of her and her story; of course, that was completely justifiable and what she had expected, but it still made her panic a little on the inside. She had to find some way to convince them it was true.

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

He granted, before waving a hand. "Granted."

"Thank you," Emilie began, sniffling a little. God, the last thing she needed was a cold. "General, they didn't know I was German. Drechsler, brave and smart to the last moment, took any indication that I was German off of my uniform, and gave me a coat to hide it." She held up the coat with one arm; it was heavy. "But he was shot on sight by a group of Americans the moment he entered the town. They didn't even suspect me; when I could speak, I gave them a fake name, and my Australian accent helped keep me under the radar."

The General considered her story for a long, drawn-out moment. Her CO glanced at her sideways, but she didn't dare look at him. She needed to be on her best behaviour, for once, and that meant playing the part of a good, obedient little soldier. Her very life, and position in the army, which was practically the same thing, could very well depend on it. Finally, Tolsdorf spoke. "And, tell me, sergeant, how did you get back here? Surely they wouldn't have happily taken you behind enemy lines."

"No, sir," She chose her words carefully, having to think on the spot. Why hadn't she prepared for this earlier? _Idiot!_ "But in the chaos after you bombed the town, I was able to slip away unnoticed and make my way back here without anyone ever realising." Emilie sighed, biting her bottom lip. "I know how it sounds, but it's the God honest true. If I could have been here, I would have, I promise you that. But please, sir, all I want to do now is make it up to you and the men and do my duty for my country. I'm not one to beg, but being a medic is in my blood. Please don't take that away from me." She knew she sounded pitiful, but all she could hope for was that it worked.

Suddenly, her CO broke his silence and stepped forward. Tolsdorf cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing, waiting for him to speak. "I know Sergeant Demont, sir," her CO began, sounding almost as desperate as Emilie however hard he tried to conceal it. It was strange to witness; he was usually so calm and calculating. "She has been in my company since training. She may be many things, but she would never lie about something as important as this. She is loyal to our army and to Germany. And it might be out of place to say so, but I believe her. We need a medic, and she is the best one around."

For a second, she expected the General to get annoyed and say something like 'thank you for your input, Major' before ordering she was shot. But, no. The tension was getting to her, and she found herself starting to get irritated; if she was going to be killed, she wished he would just spit it out already! He gestured at her Commanding Officer to stand down before returning his attention to Emilie.

"Alright, Demont," he announced, pulling a stack of papers in front of him with one hand. "Get yourself to the aid station for a check-up and a briefing of what you've missed while you've been on your little holiday."

Her heart almost erupted from her chest, and she couldn't help the huge, stupid grin that flew onto her face. "Really? Thank you! I won't let you down."

"You better not," he grunted, looking down at his papers before beginning to scrawl writing on them with an ink pen. "That will be all, sergeant, Major. Now leave me be. And, sergeant, I think it would be best if you kept the tales of your adventure to yourself, however exciting they may be."

Both she and her CO saluted sharply before turning and walking from the tent. "Thank you!" she called back before disappearing, and she could have sworn she saw the General crack a small smile. No. Her mind must have been playing tricks on her in her joyous state.

Once they were outside and once again being battered to and fro by the harsh winds, her CO turned to her. "Congratulations, Emilie. It's…" He paused awkwardly, "It's good to have you back. Soldier."

"It's good to be back," She smiled, something she never would have thought she would have done in his presence. "Even if that sounds terribly cliché."

He let out a rumbling chuckle, before nodding and walking briskly away.

Now, onto the aid station. Her favourite place.


	24. Every Demon Wants Their Pound Of Flesh

"Sergeant." The doctor looked up as she entered, from where he had been crouched down, rifling through a large metal trunk filled with medicine, bandages and the sort. "Don't hate me for saying this, but I wasn't expecting to see you again. What happened?" He rose to his feet, clicking the trunk shut as he did so.

Emilie rolled her eyes, shaking snow from her crutches. "I'm not a deserter _or_ an American sympathiser, if that's what you were thinking," she told him, not wanting to go through it all again. "I was taken to the American hospital, it was bombed, so now I'm here."

He smiled. "It's none of my business, anyway. But it will be better now that you're here. The _Hilfskrankentrager_ have been working over-time." His eyes looked sad for a moment, before flicking to her crutches. "You're lucky to have those. Okay, let's have a look at you. Take a seat."

She frowned, limping over to a chair and sitting down, extending her wounded leg. "Kuhn told me no one has been killed by a bullet since I've been gone."

The doctor didn't look up as he pulled up a second chair and carefully picked up her foot, placing it on his knee. "The soldiers don't know everything that goes on," he murmured distractedly, beginning to examine her ankle. "The officers have decided it would be better if the men only knew what they chose to tell them. When men are killed they just… Disappear, and everyone treats it as though they have been taken prisoner. The officers think it will help with morale, and also give them even more reason to fight against the Americans. It can't last for much longer, though. Soon, they'll begin to grow suspicious."

Emilie stared at him in despair. "So… How many have actually been killed?"

"If I tell you, you must promise to keep it to yourself."

"…I promise."

She winced as the surgeon began poking around her leg, applying pressure to see where exactly it stopped hurting. Muttering something about her needing a new dressing, he leaned over and plucked out a roll of white bandages, beginning to unwrap her dirty, stained one that was swimming with possible infection. They were both confronted with the sight of mangled flesh, barely managing to heal. "I don't know how it's not infected yet," he murmured, half to himself, rubbing some disinfectant onto the wound, which made Emilie growl in pain, before he began to apply fresh bandages.

"So," she spoke up as he continued to wrap it around and around her foot, "Are you going to tell me or not?"

The doctor didn't look up, too consumed by what he was doing. At first she thought he hadn't heard her, but, as he broke off the bandage and tucked it in tight enough so it would hold, patting it gently, his eyes flicked up. "9 soldiers in our company alone," he told her, beginning to pack up the equipment so he didn't have to look her in the eye, "I don't know how many in the others. A lot." As he put each glass of medicine away, he listed each man. He reached the last one. "I'm not as good with names as you. One runner was shot while in enemy territory on horseback. His Luger was stolen. I saw his horse in the distance, with one of its legs blown off, just standing there helplessly, lost. I witnessed an American pull out his gun and shoot the poor creature straight in the head. It was probably the kindest thing to do." His voice grew bitter. "Why did innocent, defenceless animals have to be dragged into this?"

Emilie looked down, wringing her wrists. No doubt she would have known the men. She felt another crack appear on her already shattered heart. She should have _been_ there.

They both remained silent for a few minutes, the surgeon with his back to her, hands resting on the cabinet in front of him, head hung. Though he made no sound, she could tell he was crying from the way his shoulders shook every so often and the tiny patches of melted snow beneath him where his tears had fallen. Maybe he was losing his effectiveness. The thought sent anxiety shooting through her. As irritated as he made her, the last thing she wanted was for him to leave her alone out there. But maybe it was the best thing for him. She wasn't the only one that was suffering.

Finally, he turned back to her, and there was no evidence he had been crying apart from the slight redness and puffiness under his eyes. "Go get something to eat, sergeant." He ordered her gently.

Nodding, she carefully lowered herself back onto the snow, making her shiver, and placed the crutches back under her arms. As she began to walk out of the tent, she paused, looked back, and told him, "You make sure to do the same. And call me Emilie."

He smiled sadly and nodded. "Whatever you say."

"Hey, I'm not kidding. When was the last time you ate?"

"I… Don't remember."

"See?"

"I'm the doctor here, Emilie."

"Then you should know better than to starve yourself. I'll come back and eat my meal in here with you, how's that? Clearly, you can't be trusted."

He chuckled. "Thanks for the advice. That wouldn't be… Terrible, I suppose."

Emilie smiled, hoping he wouldn't notice it was forced. "It's a date, bucko."


	25. Here I Am A Rabbit Hearted Girl

As she made her way clumsily to the foxhole that she used to tentatively call "home", Emilie was greeted by the suspicious murmurings of the soldiers around her. But she refused to wilt under the glares, instead raising her head and walking on past when inside she was crumbling. So much could change in so little time.

But not everyone was hostile; half of the men scrambled out of their foxholes to greet her with smiles, welcoming her back and asking question after question, also ignoring their comrades. Zimmermann was amongst them, at the head. She told them as much as she could, but lied about the rest: she said that she had been taken to another aid station, but that she had to stay there because it had been too dangerous to go back, what with the frequent American patrols. She just hoped they didn't ask the other aid stations, or the CO or General. When confronted about Drechsler, she simply said she didn't know, that he had dropped her off and that had been the last she had seen of him. Oh, how she wished her story was fact.

Zimmermann must have seen she was tired and sick of constantly explaining herself, as he told every other man to give her space. Yes, she was over the moon to be back with her men and friends, but she was still wounded, and all she wanted to do then was curl up in her foxhole.

As all the other soldiers unwillingly dropped back into their holes, though they still peeked their heads out to watch her the entire time like she was some kind of celebrity, albeit a controversial one, Zimmermann turned to her and lead her to her foxhole.

"It's fallen into a state of kind of… Disrepair," he told her nervously as they looked down at the hole that was half-filled with snow and dirt. "Sorry."

"It's fine," she replied with a small sigh. She looked down at her crutches, then back at Zimmermann, smiling faintly. "Sorry, I know it's a lot to ask, but I can't exactly dig a hole in my condition, and—"

He held up a gloved hand to interrupt her, smiling in that little mousey way he had. "Of course I'll help you dig it out, Emilie."

Emilie nodded and smiled thankfully, feeling a little guilty and useless as he turned, disappeared into his foxhole for a moment, before reappearing with a shovel held in both hands. He ploughed through the snow that had gathered in her foxhole in no time; she was impressed. For such a little thing, he was actually quite strong. Maybe he was just trying to impress her. Well, she would be happy to tell him it was working. But just not in the same way Eugene impressed her with… Everything. God, how many times a day was she going to dwell on him? She hardly knew the guy. But half of her said she didn't need to know anything else to come to the conclusion that she—_No!_ She still wasn't sure what the bloody hell was going on with her.

Zimmermann was finished in the blink of an eye, and looked up at her like a puppy would look up at their master to see if they had done the right thing. She smiled back and murmured thanks. That was all he needed to make him happy.

He scrambled up beside her with his shovel, dirty and covered in snow, and gestured to the cleared foxhole like a magician would to his completed trick before the amazed, applauding audience. "I missed you," he told her softly, almost shyly.

Emilie chuckled, slowly sliding into the foxhole and laying her crutches beside her. She looked up. "I missed you too, Zimmermann. Even if this wasn't quite the home-warming I was expecting."

"I'm so sorry about the others." He replied guiltily.

She shook her head. "No, no, don't apologise. It's not your fault. I understand. I would be the same in their position." _No. I wouldn't allow myself to be brainwashed by an idiot. _


	26. I Must Become The Lion Hearted Girl

"Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in."

Emilie raised her head to look up at the faces that were glaring down at her, headed, of course, by Eberhardt. From the other foxholes, she could hear other men hissing at them to leave her alone and let her be, that what they were doing would get them nowhere. But Eberhardt and his merry lot would not be deterred.

"What a lovely surprise," she replied with a fake smile, voice dripping with sarcasm. She remained seated with her back resting against the icy cold wall of dirt, a blanket the doctor had brought her drawn up to her chin and her crutches at her side, ready in case she needed to leap out as best she could to help people. On her lap was a new medic bag that the doctor had also given her when they had eaten together; it was too pristine for her liking, but, just as the Belgian woman had said back in Bastogne, she couldn't afford to be picky.

"You're looking comfy," one of the other men, Bitner, sneered from beside Eberhardt from where he was crouched down. "But I bet you're used to that now, being fussed over, while the rest of us have been doing our jobs and suffering and _fighting_."

"Oh, yes," she mumbled into her jacket; she had also been supplied with a fresh uniform, and, though her old one had been blood-stained and disgustingly filthy, she had been a little sad to part with it. "You're regular heroes."

Another man jumped down into her foxhole, looming over her. She looked up, raising her eyebrows in a manner that said 'you think you're tough? 'Cause I'm not afraid of you'. "What was that?" he asked, taking a step forward with his fingers brushing over his gun holster. "I didn't quite hear you, Demont."

"I think she said something about us being true heroes," Eberhardt chuckled from above, voice hinting at a snarl.

The man smiled. "Well, you would be right about that. We _are_ heroes, unlike _you_." He leaned towards her, his acrid breath hot on her face. Still she held her ground. Then he hissed in a low, vicious whisper, "And don't you forget it, traitor. You're only here because we let you be here."

"Oh, I'm shaking in my boots," she muttered back. "Is this going to turn into some Western shooting showdown? You know, where everyone runs to the taverns and we crack our knuckles and—"

He drew back his pistol and slammed the butt of it into the side of her face at full force; the impact sent her crumpling sideways to the ground, struggling to remain conscious. Emilie could taste the metallic tang of blood and could feel it dripping from her ears as she slowly pushed herself upwards, supporting herself with her elbows as she looked up at her attacker, the rest of her body still lying on the earth. Drawing in a shuddery, stubborn breath, she spat the blood onto his clothes, glaring up at him. "Going to have to do better than that," she croaked, moving her jaw from side to side to test it. That would sure leave one hell of a bruise, and she was lucky all of her teeth remained intact. God _dammit_.

The man exclaimed in disgust, using his gun to wipe away the bloody spit. She wished the gun would go off and sever the artery in his leg. It was probably one of the worst mistakes in her mistake-filled life: having enemies inside her own platoon. But they should no she wasn't going to go down without a fight, and she was definitely going to bring at least one of them down with her, kicking and screaming. The other men watched from above.

Suddenly, he shot forward and snatched her up by the collar of her jacket, making her choke. "You better watch your back, woman," he spat, his face mere millimetres from hers. She said nothing as he threw her back to the ground and retreated back out of the foxhole, where he was patted on the back by the others.

The worst killer in the army, high above being shot at by the enemy, is paranoia among your own troops.


	27. Back In Business

A few days had passed since the incident in Emilie's foxhole, and she had been right: she now wore a large piece of cloth on her left cheekbone, covering the six stitches that were sure to leave a gruesome scar in the future. But that didn't stop her from giving her men daily check-ups. It wasn't the same as before, however. When they had once greeted her happily and like she was family, now they forced smiles and seemed unsure of how to act around her. There was no playful banter. She just did her job and moved on. It hurt.

She was forced to work with her haters, too, who spent the entire time she was near them making snide, offensive comments and threats. For the most part, she remained silent, counting the seconds before she could leave them, but sometimes, they would say something that really hit a nerve and she would snap something back at them, which only made them laugh.

The man that had struck her had been given a real reprimand by the CO – that's a nice way of putting it; everyone had been able to hear the CO yelling at him from his tent. When the soldier had returned, he had been like a beaten dog, subdued, and had slid into his foxhole and stayed there the entire night without comment. But the peace hadn't lasted long, and the next day he had been back on his destructive rampage. If only she had an excuse to give him one too many doses of morphine… She had actually considered that more than once, but she always came back to the conclusion that she would be the prime suspect and would most likely be shot. Pity.

But, soon, it had become apparent that they were the least of her worries and they had faded into the background. Emilie was brought back into reality, that they were in a _war_. It had started in the early hours one day, when she had been awoken by the grinding and spluttering and squeaking of tanks moving close by. She had bolted to her feet, equipped herself with her crutches, and climbed hastily out of her foxhole. The sight that had greeted her had been German tanks pouring through the trees, knocking them over and firing all they had at the Americans. The Yanks had evidently been caught off guard, as it had taken a minute before they had begun laying on the rapid machine gun fire and launching bazookas and mortars at the tanks.

For a little while at least, the odds had been weighed heavily in the Germans' favour. Then it all fell apart when the Americans began to fight back, and a large portion of the German forces had been destroyed. Emilie had narrowly missed being crushed by a falling tree, and had hit the deck, seeking shelter further into the woods where most of the other soldiers had also gathered, their eyes as round as the moon. She had then immediately set to work, giving orders to men who were still capable of doing something to bring the wounded to the rear and check the tank wreckages for any signs of life. She had hated being so useless; usually, she would have done all that herself.

She and the surgeons had worked well into the night, but still the death toll had steadily risen. Emilie had refused to give up on a man that had obviously not stood a chance, and the doctor had been forced to literally drag her away. But, having her luck, not one of her haters had died; indeed, most of the dead had been her supporters.

The Germans had once been so sure of their victory; failure had not even been considered. But now, they were truly nervous.

That had not been a fun day.


	28. Letters From The Past

One consolation that added some light to an otherwise gloomy existence was the news that, somehow, the letters to the German soldiers from their loved ones had finally arrived, only a few months late. If they hadn't been able to deliver the mail in Holland, Emilie was surprised they were able to in Bastogne, where it was a million times worse. But, by some miracle, they had.

"Hey, hey!" A man's voice rang out over the excited, impatient shouts of the soldiers, and Emilie stood on her tip-toes to see someone standing on a chair at the front of the crush so that he could make himself heard. "One at a time! Get in line! Would somebody please make a line? This is getting us nowhere."

The soldiers obeyed and fell into a line, some still pushing to be at the front. But, finally, they were all in a single-file queue, with Emilie somewhere in the middle. Everyone still pushed and shoved and yelled, but, hey, at least they were in a goddamn line.

The man on the chair at the front waited for relative silence, before thanking everyone, stepping off it, and taking a seat behind a flimsy desk where packages were piled in heaps. He then began calling out names, starting with people with a last name beginning with 'A'. The men with last names beginning with letters near the end of the alphabet groaned and swore, but the A-group couldn't be happier. They collected their packages with smiles, before hurrying away to read them in the privacy of their new foxholes deeper in the woods.

After a little while, the call of 'Demont, Emilie' rang out, and Emilie squirmed out of the suffocating throng of men to collect the package she was half-surprised was actually there. Her parents had written her? Or maybe it was her brother, Tobias. The thought filled her with a warmth, but a longing to hold him in her arms again. He would have grown so much since she had last seen him. As she walked down along the line, the muttering of the men filled her ears, and a few attempted to kick her crutches out from under her. Luckily, she was always one step ahead of them, and lifted the crutches before they had a chance, turning to them and smiling and thanking them for getting the snow off of them, much to their annoyance.

When she arrived at the desk, the man ticked off her name and handed her the small, brown paper package that seemed to contain two letters and something round and bulky. She thanked the man with a thin smile, before limping back to her foxhole. Sliding into it, she sat down and ripped open the paper.

As she had suspected, there were to letters. One was from her mother, which she flung aside to read later, while she recognised her baby brother's handwriting on the second one. After more than a year, and she guessed with her mother trying to force him to write neater and stop being left-handed because 'that was the hand of Lucifer!', his writing was still messy. She gleefully opened it, grinning.

_Dear Lizzie,_

_It's so lonely without you here. And quiet! But it's still fine, and I really enjoy reading the old books you gave me. I have read my favourite one three times. It helps to take my mind off things when we have to go down into the bunker. I swear there is no sound more scary than the air-raid siren. Every time it goes off, I get goosebumps and I wish you were here. But you are doing good over there, I know you are, even if Mama doesn't think so. I get every update on the war I can. I always hope they might mention you've done something heroic, like I know you would have. But they never do. Their loss! I also love not having to go to school, though Mama tries to home school me still. She says I'm like you when I don't want to work because I'm stubborn, but I take that as a compliment._

_I hate the war so much and just want it to be over so you can come home, but now you've inspired me to be a soldier. But I'm still too young. I wish I wasn't, though, so I might be able to be in the same place as you. I wouldn't be afraid, I promise._

_Anyway, I have to go now. Mama doesn't know I'm writing this and I hope you get it. I miss you so much. I have the necklace you gave me in my pocket every day. It makes me feel happy._

_Lots of love, _

_Tobias _

_September 1944_

She reread the letter a few more times, clutching it to her heart with tears welling in her eyes. Emilie laughed quietly and smiled, tucking the letter carefully into her pocket along with Julian's and the little bluebird her brother had given her all those months ago. She still carried it everywhere, took it out to hold when she was particularly down.

Then she moved onto the letter from her mother, bracing herself and not wanting to dampen the happiness the letter had given her with her mother's words. Even so, she let out a sigh and opened the letter. It had clearly been written in a hurry and with a pen lacking ink, as some of the paper was ripped by the tip of the pen and covered in ink splotches.

_Emilie,_

_Your brother was killed. He refused to be evacuated to the country because he was waiting for you to come home. The shrapnel went straight through his head. He died instantly._

_This is your fault, Emilie. If you make it out alive, don't bother coming home. I have left your father, not that you care._

_Helga._

_September 1944 _


	29. There's A Grief That Can't Be Spoken

She held the letter in front of her, not believing what she had just read. Her hands shook uncontrollably, almost tearing the already battered paper in half. Setting it aside, her breaths coming in gasps, she fumbled for the other object that she had felt in the package. With shaky hands, she held the brown paper upside down and shook it out, one hand held underneath to catch whatever it was. But she missed it, and it fell to the ground. Emilie struggled to pick up the small, silver dog pendant she had given Tobias when she had left Berlin.

Not saying a word, she collected her crutches, climbed out of her foxhole, and walked away with the necklace held tightly in one hand, leaving the letter to the weather. Maybe someone else would find it when they came looking for her. She didn't care.

She walked right past the other soldiers, expressionless, not answering when they asked where she was going simply because she didn't hear them. Nothing registered. She could have had her arm blown off and not even noticed.

Emilie continued silently on her way, not even considering the fact that she would be shot on sight if any Americans spotted movement in the woods. She followed the 'U' shape the trees made around the small village of Foy. She continued like that for a long time, not even feeling the cold, not feeling anything. But that emotionless bliss didn't last forever. When she got to a certain points, she lost it.

She let out a screech, not caring who heard, friend or enemy, and threw her crutches to the ground, kicking them repeatedly with her injured foot, revelling in the agony it caused her. She tore at any exposed skin with her nails, drawing blood, slammed her fists against a tree trunk, sobbing uncontrollably the entire time.

What did she have to live for now? He _was_ her life. The thought of her baby brother had been the only thing keeping her going. He was her best friend, her everything. But the worst thing of all was that he had been dead for four months. _Four fucking months_ and she hadn't known, hadn't felt it, nothing. He was too young. Her mother was right: it _was_ her fault. If she hadn't left, if she hadn't _abandoned_ him, she would have been there to protect him. She should be dead, not him. Not Tobias. Not her little brother, who had barely begun to live.

Emilie staggered and fell to her knees, beating her fists against the hard snow until she split the skin on her knuckles and a light trickle of blood stained the snow. Her wails were muffled as she tucked her chin into her jacket, shaking her head. This was all a nightmare. She was going to wake up in her bed, back in Germany. Her entire body hurt. Her _soul_ hurt. She felt empty, like everything even remotely good had been replaced by pain and a deep-set feeling of _nothing_.

"Miss Demont?" The voice sounded very far away. "Jesus Christ. Sergeant? _Emilie?_"

She faintly heard someone running towards her, and felt a hand on her back as they kneeled down beside her. Still choking on her tears and letting out incoherent sounds as she stifled wails, Emilie looked up to see Eugene, staring down at her with obvious concern and a frantic light in his eyes.

"Jesus, miss Demont," he breathed, looking down at her bloody hands, "What did you do to yourself?"

Emilie tried to say something, but she broke off in another sob, jerking away from Gene and hanging her head. She felt his hand hover over her back for a few seconds, before he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Alright, miss Demont," he soothed, "Let's get you to your feet. Everything's gonna be okay. C'mon."

She shook her head hopelessly, turning away from him. "Leave me alone," she managed to mumble, salty, warm tears falling onto her tongue. "I don't want you here."

Gene refused to leave. "Well, I don't care what you want," he replied, voice soft, scooting closer and raising himself into a crouch, "Now, come on, help me out here. Up we get." One arm still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, he slowly edged her to her feet. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, both because of her injured foot that was now twice as bad and her mind that was clouded by crippling grief, but Eugene caught her before she fell. She beat her fists against his chest, but he still didn't let her go.

Vision blurred by tears and eyes half-closed, mouth partially open as she fought for breath, she gave up on her stubborn, tough act and leaned against the American medic. He rubbed her arm comfortingly and lead her to a shallow foxhole that an American had obviously started to dig out and then abandoned as they had moved further into the woods.

He helped her down into the foxhole, slipping in after her. Emilie sat turned away from him, right shoulder pressing into the dirt uncomfortably, staring straight ahead. Her finger nails were bloody and already starting to bruise. She could feel his body heat radiating off of him as he sat beside her. Neither of them said anything for a minute. The thing that she felt most, above all the intense sorrow and horror, was a blinding rage.

Then, finally, with her back still turned to him, she whispered, barely audible, "If God truly loves us, why is He doing this?" Emilie's fingers brushed over the small, gold cross that hung from around her wrist, before she grabbed it and tore it away, breaking the chain. She let it fall silently from her palm onto the snow.

"What happened?" Eugene asked quietly. "What are you doing here, miss Demont?"

She shook her head, another tear running down her cheek. "My brother is dead." She didn't want to beat around the bush.

Emilie felt him tense beside her; she had told him about Tobias, about her love for him. He knew how much he meant to her. "I'm… Sorry," he murmured.

"You didn't know him," she muttered, chuckling darkly. When she was upset, she, for some strange, terrible reason that she had never understood, always felt the need to make everyone around suffer along with her. "You don't know how it feels."

"You're right. I don't have any siblings. But I have lost people – people I care about."

Sniffling, she rolled onto her back, turning her head to the side to face him, snow and dirt sticking to her right side where she had been lying. Her heart felt like it was going to burst from her chest. "I know you have," she whispered, forcing the words out as her throat closed up, aching and making speaking difficult, "And I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to see me like this. It's so stupid, but… I don't know how I'm going to go on." She broke off in a bout of coughing accompanied by sobs.

Gene usually looked so calm, but now, staring down at her with dark, hooded eyes and that little frown, he seemed so hurt, as though he hated seeing her like that. "Don't talk like that," he scolded her gently, "You're strong; you'll get through it, I know you will."

"You don't know me," she growled, lowering her eyes.

"No," he responded after a brief hesitation, "But you've told me how much your brother and your army mean to you, and I do know you'll fight through this 'cause you don't wanna let them down. You're stubborn, miss Demont. And that's not always a good thing, but, in this case, it is."

Her eyes flickered close; that soon proved to be a very bad idea, as the darkness allowed concocted images of her brother's mangled body to play over and over on the inside of her eyelids, for her to remember his tears when she had left him. She snapped open her eyes and glanced down at the dog pendant she was still holding, tracing her index finger over the tarnished object. Her chin quivered. She hated nothing more than showing weakness; she couldn't stress that enough. But, though her protective barriers were trying to crash down around her, the sadness and anger was just too much to contain, and kept shoving them back. It was a horrible, repetitive circle that wasn't helping her cope.

Not thinking, just searching for some comfort, no matter where it came from, she shuffled forward, burying her face into Gene's chest and fisting a handful of his jacket's material. Neither of them said anything; at first, Eugene stiffened, clearly unsure of how to react, but, after a few moments, he tentatively lifted his right hand and once again rubbed her arm soothingly. She cried quietly, staining his uniform where her tears fell. But he didn't seem to mind, and, if he did, he made no sign of it.

They stayed that way for a little while, Gene every so often murmuring something like "it's okay" into her auburn hair, his breath hot against her skin. He smelt musky, but it was a pleasant scent, filling her nostrils and making her feel at home – not home like in Germany, but just… Safe, as a home is supposed to be. She knew it couldn't last but, for now, she just enjoyed the extra warmth and closeness of another person as much as she could under the circumstances.

But, suddenly, she realised what she had been doing, and bolted away, almost hitting her head on the other side of the foxhole. Eugene jumped too, seemingly surprised at the sudden movement, but stayed where he was.

"I'm…" She wiped the tears frantically from her eyes and cleared her throat, "I'm sorry, Eugene. That was inconsiderate of me. I put you in an uncomfortable position. I, um…" Emilie looked around for her crutches, dazed and confused and taking a second to locate them even though the foxhole was no wider than five feet. As soon as she found them, she struggled to her feet. "I'll go now. Thank you, for… God, sorry, 'bye."

Emilie was scrambling onto the snow above the foxhole when Gene placed a hand on her hers to stop her. "Don't apologise," he told her, lips pursed, frowning in that way he got sometimes, like he was deep in thought, "Do you need help getting back?"

She tried to smile the best she could, forcing back yet another sob and wiping her eyes again. "No, no. I'll be fine." She gestured to his jacket. "Sorry for, um, ruining your uniform."

He looked down. "Nah, it probably helped clean it a little, anyway. Don't beat yourself up 'bout comin' here."

Emilie nodded, sucking in a breath. "Look out for yourself, yeah?" She raised her chin, using her protective method of closing herself of: humour. But she expected Eugene could see right through her. "Getting yourself blown up won't help anyone."

"Will do," he replied, smiling sadly. "You too, miss Demont." Just as she turned to go, he added, "And I'm sorry."

With a thin smile, Emilie began to make the long walk back to the line, back to the remarks of Eberhardt that she really couldn't handle at the moment. If he had any common sense at all, he would learn to not step on her toes at that particular moment. Because a woman in pain will do reckless, irrational things, and he was right in the firing line. She wouldn't be held responsible if she did anything she might later regret.

_A/N: You know, it's funny. While I was writing this, it felt like I was in Emilie's position; my heart was doing crazy shiznit, and I felt sad a long time after ahaha. Well, I hope this doesn't disappoint. Review if you like, if you want to add one, big, stupid smile to my face. (; A lot of updates today ohwow._

_I've kind of unintentionally been experimenting with different levels of sadness when it comes to Emilie losing people: you know, trying to ignore it when it came to Rene, blaming herself for everyone else, and then there's her brother, where she just feels this indescribable rage more than anything else, and this burning desire for revenge, taking it out on herself. I kind of based that off of when Guarnere lost his brother; in the book, it quotes him saying that, when they dropped him into Germany, they let loose this wild, blood-thirsty animal. So, yeah. Ahahah. _

_We'll just see where that takes us, I suppose. Hey, I don't know any more than you guys! I have this rough plan in my head for where things are going and what will happen, but mostly I just let it write itself. I hope you aren't disappointed. :D_

_Enjoy, my dears!_

_xx_


	30. So Much Hate For The Ones We Love

Foy.

Once a quaint little village, now partially destroyed and over-run with soldiers. Throughout the battle in the Ardennes, German soldiers had taken time away from the line to visit Foy, to sleep with a roof over their head and live in relative comfort, even if it was only for a few hours, before traipsing back to the front. Emilie had never been so lucky, though she probably wouldn't have appreciated the silence, anyway.

Now she stood, supported by her crutches, looking down at it from a rise. On either side of her were the other members of her company, along with a few other platoons from the SS Panzer Divisions and what have you, looking uneasy at being out in the open. Her CO was at the front, talking urgently with the General and another man she didn't know, while the rest of the troops stood back, waiting for the order for them to descend into Foy and take up defensive positions.

Everyone knew they were losing. No matter what the ranking officers said, no matter how much they tried to assure them they had the Americans running scared even when they didn't seem to fully believe it, everyone knew the truth. What had meant to be a simple mission had turned into a royal disaster.

The rage of losing her brother still bubbled under her skin like a volcano ready to erupt at any second, and the soldiers seemed to sense that, appearing extra cautious of her. As she had anticipated, Eberhardt had discovered the letter informing her of Tobias' death, and had proceeded to read it aloud to the entire platoon while she had been gone. Some people, she had been told, had defended her, sympathised with her as a few of them had also lost siblings either during or before the war. But the others had been heartless.

Even still, when she had returned and been confronted by Eberhardt's obnoxious, triumphant grin, she had just looked him up and down, shrugged, told him to keep the letter, and settled into her foxhole for the night. Her dreams had been haunted by that old nightmare of the people she had gotten killed blaming her, but there had been a new addition to their ranks: her brother. She had started awake, and had stayed awake for the remainder of the night, refusing to allow herself to fall asleep again. Now she was sure there were dark rings under her eyes, but she didn't care.

The day after that, a few shots had been fired from the Americans, and a German private had been caught out in the open. Screams for a medic had come down the line, but she had just sat in her foxhole. Eventually, Zimmermann had dropped down, almost falling directly on top of her, and tried desperately to get her up. She had scarcely heard him, staring straight ahead, curled up, not wanting to leave and face the outside world. But, finally, he had managed to get through to her, and she had knocked some sense into her barely-functioning brain, and had run out of the foxhole, feet barely skimming the ground as though she had wings. Emilie had been able to save the private, but that hadn't cheered her up. She was just fixing him up, then he would go to the aid station, stay there for a little while, and then re-join his comrades to be killed in another battle. It was a vicious, unending cycle that always ended in a horrible death.

"Move out!" The soldiers around her started moving as they heard the order from their commanding officer, and Emilie was unwillingly swept up with them; even if she had wanted to stop, she couldn't have. She was knocked to and fro, struggling to regain upright as she walked as fast as her crutches would allow. "_Damn things,_" she hissed under her breath, not even knowing if she was speaking in German or English anymore. She had no idea which one classified as her native tongue.

As the men descended the rise, one or two slipped on the fresh snow and went ass up. Everyone who had witnessed the inelegant incident laughed. While she would usually be amongst them, joking, now she remained silent, continuing on down.

Once they were in the village, the men were quickly assigned positions: the machine guns were to go on the top floor of the building with the caved-in roof; the others would set up a perimeter and man mortars. This could more than likely be their final stand, and no one was going to let their time for preparations go to waste.

Emilie re-filled her bag with medicine supplies from the surgeon, who was looking appropriately nervous.

"Looking forward to this?" she asked sarcastically, stuffing another bandage into the bag that hung from her shoulder. "It's sure to be a barrel of laughs."

"I don't think so," he responded seriously, frowning down at her.

Emilie looked up and smiled, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. "Hey, I was just joking. No need to get your pants in a twist."

He looked down, and she saw his cheeks redden slightly in embarrassment. "Right, yes, sorry. I just… Have trouble joking at times like these."

She nodded, closing her bag. "I understand, doc." She replied, "Different people deal with things different ways." She must have seemed so calm on the exterior, not at all afraid of the impending battle. If only they could see what she was experiencing on the inside, how many emotions were swirling around inside her body.


	31. Here We Talked Of Revolution

_A/N: Gah! still hates me. I've written in all these author notes that haven't shown up in the chapters... Ah, well. The mystery of the missing author notes. I guess I'll just do a brief summary of what I said in the lost ones: first of all, considering an earlier chapter, __I should probably point out that the whole thing about people just "disappearing" is fictional, something I thought up, so I have no idea whether or not it actually occurred. Just thought I'd warn you. _

_And ahahaha yes, that Hinkel is meant to be the one mentioned in the episode; in my head, for this story at least, the man calling out for Hinkel that Spina and Babe stumbled across was Kuhn, when he got separated during the patrol. Sue me. C:_

_Reviews are a very good thing. Hint. Hint. Enjoy, and thanks once again for your continued support! It means the world to me and puts a smile on my face when I'm feeling down, or have the flu, as I currently do. D: I think all this talk of Bastogne has made me sick aha. _

_Enjoy, my sweets._

_xx_

It seemed to move in slow motion.

Never had Emilie seen anything like it. In all the other battles she had been a part of, the enemy had just suddenly appeared from the shadows. But not now. Now, she saw them run across the open, snow-covered field, wielding their weapons, saw the men that would either kill or be killed. It was a strange phenomenon, to stare into the eyes of the enemy, to think they have families.

And then they are shot right between the eyes.

Emilie was snapped back into the present as the German 88's began to fire and the Americans scrambled apart, ducking for cover behind large bales of hay, peeking out to fire their rifles. But something didn't seem… _Right._ She and her company had faced these paratroopers before, and they were among the best they had ever encountered. The Americans had always run straight into the fray. But now they stayed behind the flimsy cover of the hay, looking confused and panicked. She could hear them yelling frantically over the gunfire.

The Germans didn't seem to be taking as much advantage of this as they could have, but, strangely, she didn't want them to. Maybe not as many had to die today.

She glanced up at the second-story window where the German snipers were firing from. Before the battle had begun, she had overheard them praying; they knew that they would most likely die, but they were willing to do that for their country. It was common knowledge that the enemy always tried to take out the snipers first – strategy.

All around her, shouts of _'feuer!'_ rang out, and Emilie watched, helpless, as American soldiers fell to the ground, dead. Most of the time, their comrades only spared them glances that lasted a split second, but in that time she saw over-powering emotions cross their faces. Such was war. It causes feelings so strong – stronger than any civilian could ever hope to comprehend.

Only for a second did she catch a glimpse of Eugene's white armband with the blood-red cross before he joined the others behind the haystack. _No!_ She wanted to scream at him, _it's not safe there, you idiot! _

Emilie was currently taking shelter behind an old barn, peeking out. Her CO had ordered that she stay back, out of the way, and only move to assist people. But, with a grave, regretful face, he had also told her to not bother moving if it looked like the man stood no chance, that they couldn't risk their only medic. Of course, she wasn't going to obey his orders. She wasn't about to start now after all this time.

"_Mediziner!_" The scream for a medic sounded somewhere to her right and she turned her head to see a man sprawled out on the ground beside a German tank, one of the other men crouched over him protectively. "Sheiße! _Mediziner!_"

Keeping her head low, she skirted around a stack of singed wooden crates and limped quickly towards them, hoping to Hell the Americans would see she was a medic and hold their fire as the Germans had done countless times before. Hopefully, they had enough decency to do at least that.

She sat down beside the man (because of her injured foot, she could either stand up or sit to treat someone, and, right then, standing in the open didn't seem like such a brilliant idea), landing heavily on the dirt. She had bandaged her hands after ripping her nails through them in the woods, and thus fixing anyone up was going to be difficult. But she was going to give it a go.

The soldier had been hit in the calf, but it was a clean shot, in one side and out through the other; if it had been a few inches higher, the bullet would have severed the main artery in the thigh. But he would survive that wound. "Okay," she turned to the other man that had been crouched over him, "Take him, get him back away from the front and have a surgeon patch him up. Dammit, where are the _Hilfskrankentrager_ when I need them?" She looked around but couldn't spot any. Emilie returned her attention to the man. "Drop your weapon."

"What?" He stared at her as though she were insane, "I'm not going anywhere without my gun. In case you haven't noticed, sergeant, this is a war!"

"Oh, yes you are," she hissed back, wishing they would just trust their medic. She knew she was asking a lot of him, but Jesus! "You're going as a medic, so drop your fucking gun or they'll splatter your brains on the snow before you even get two feet."

He looked ready to argue, but she obviously wasn't willing to put up with any of his bullshit, so he did as he was told and placed his weapon at her feet. Emilie nodded in thanks, then leaned down to the injured man, who was just lying there, barely looking frightened. In fact, there was a somewhat deranged smile on his face. She swallowed and let out a sigh, knowing what that meant. He had lost his effectiveness. "You're going to be fine," she murmured, patting his shoulder lightly.

The man let out a sing-song laugh in response, mumbling something she didn't understand. When she gestured to him, the other soldier picked up the wounded man, slung him over his shoulders easily, and carried him away as quickly as he could. Once she was satisfied they were out of sight, she began to get to her feet.

But, before she could, the Tiger behind her exploded with a deafening boom. She barely had time to throw herself to the ground and cover her head before chunks of metal began to crash to the snow around her, raining down around her body. Her breaths were coming in gasps, adrenaline streaming through her veins and making her feel warm. But she wasn't scared, not like she usually would have been. Maybe it had something to do with her brother. Maybe she was just getting used to it. Either way, she found she didn't like it. She needed the terror. The thrill, as much as she hated the army, or at least told herself she did.

Remembering where she was, she pushed herself up and snapped her head back to look at the remnants of the tank – clearly too quickly, as her neck muscles twinged painfully. Men in their white winter uniforms were still climbing out of the tank, but everyone seemed intact. "Anyone wounded?" she called to them, relieved when they shook their heads. But, at the same time, not having anyone to treat left her feeling useless. Oh, but she knew she shouldn't worry about that. There would be plenty of people she would be unable to save in the coming battles.

Nodding, she turned around. And the sight that welcomed her was… Well, quite frankly, unbelievable, and, for a brief moment, she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. Every German around her seemed to think the same thing, as no one fired at the man.

Running past her, looking impossibly unfazed and determined, was a handsome American soldier. He passed straight by the Germans, not sparing any of them a second glance, flung himself over a small, stone wall, and reappeared a moment later, doing the whole spectacle over again before re-joining his fellow soldiers behind a building.

She couldn't help the disbelieving laugh that flew from her lips as she stared at the man. No one could be left feeling unimpressed after seeing that. Wow… Just… Holy _shit!_ What kind of soldiers were the Americans training?

Behind her, she could hear an officer yelling abuse at his men: "Why didn't you shoot at him? You're soldiers, for Christ's sake! Act like it!" Usually, the Germans fired their 88's at anything that moved.

He received no intelligible excuses.


	32. Don't Ask Me What Your Sacrifice Was For

The German's lead in the battle didn't last long.

After not very long at all, the Americans had them surrounded, having regained their confidence. As the snipers had feared, the Americans had aimed everything they had at the building with the caved-in roof, and they had been blown to kingdom come. It had been a horrifying sight; Emilie was still traumatised after every battle, despite the fact she had been involved in so many.

"We need to retreat," her CO hissed in her ear, running up to where she had been closing the eyes of a dead soldier behind the cover of a building.

Emilie raised her head, eyes wide. "What?" she called after him, making him pause. "But they've got us surrounded."

He didn't look at her as he replied through clenched teeth, "I know. But I don't want the whole company to be taken prisoner, Demont. It's now or never." Understandably. Life was not good for prisoners of war; the Japanese were infamous for their cruel methods of extracting information, such as cutting off the prisoner's eyelids, but Emilie wasn't entirely sure what the Americans did, nor was she completely certain of her own people's techniques. She wasn't told much. She shuddered at the thought. Half of her didn't want to know.

With one last, sorrowful glance at the corpse beneath her, she nodded and shoved herself upwards with one hand, using the other to rearrange her crutches. Her CO continued to gather up all the troops he could find; some were more eager to go than others. Eberhardt in particular seemed to be in his element as he fired shot after shot from behind a wall, revelling in the fight despite the fact one of his friends was lying dead at his feet. Emilie bowed her head. Even if the dead soldier had been opposed to her, she didn't enjoy seeing anyone dead.

When her CO told Eberhardt they were retreating, he whipped around, eyes wild, and sneered at the ranking officer, who looked taken aback but defiant all the same. "Coward!" Eberhardt spat, "We can't retreat now!"

Her CO took a step closer so he was towering over the corporal, looking down on him with his jaw set. "That is an order, Eberhardt, and it is _not_ up for debate. We are leaving, _now_."

Eberhardt glared at him for a few seconds longer, before he brought an end to their peacock display and turned his seething, narrow-eyed stare on Emilie, who held his gaze. "You heard the man," she told him, not as calmly as she would have liked. In fact, her voice came out a little shaky, and she cursed her nerves for it.

Finally, they managed to drag the soldier away from his post, and they were making their way towards the woods, sticking to the buildings and going around the back to avoid being spotted. Surprisingly, it worked. But, as Emilie's eyes travelled over the ranks of soldiers surrounding her, her heart plummeted. They were missing well over 100 men. She knew that, despite her desperate protests, a few men had volunteered to remain behind as distractions, but that still didn't account for the considerable loss. Not that many had died. So where were they?

She looked over her shoulder to see German soldiers being roughly shoved out of a large building and onto the street, but they weren't being killed. _Prisoners,_ she realised, sending ice shooting down her spine. Her CO, in his hurry, must not have done a very good job at counting how many men he had gathered to retreat; the other hundred must have been hiding around Foy. She saw one of the men shoot a wistful look in the direction of the retreating Germans, as though begging them to rescue him, but an American promptly stepped between him and the other Germans, blocking their view of each other. Emilie felt regret stab at her heart. There was nothing she could do for them, only make sure they were remembered as heroes if some didn't make it out alive.

At that moment, a few shots of a rifle filled the air and the Germans all instinctively crouched down, glancing back. But, when it was apparent it was not them the Americans were shooting at, they continued on their way, faster than before, not stopping until they were well into the woods.

And, the entire time, Emilie could not shake the feeling that the whole mission had been a huge mistake, that they had lost far more than they had gained, and that she now had 100 more to add to the extensive list of people she hadn't been able to save.

_A/N: So, this is purely fictional once again; I just wanted Emilie to be involved in Foy, but needed a way to get her out of there, and being taken prisoner didn't really work for the plot I have going (what?! There's a plot? Ha.) So, I settled for retreating. C: I try to keep this story as historically accurate and use facts from the amazing book and other sources whenever I can, but sometimes that's hard ahah._

_Hope you enjoyed it, and I'll update as soon as I can. This fic has basically taken over my life whoops. Review if you like. 3_

_xx_


	33. Lips Sealed, Heart Closed, Eyes Peeled

_A/N: Ola once again! :D So, I'd like to start of this chapter with a few shout-outs to my reviewers (you can skip this, as it's a bit long ahaha)._

_That fantastic random reviewer, who has been with this story since the start; you never fail to put a huge smile on my face! Thank you so, so much, darling. You make my experience on here a great, rewarding one. You've critiqued my work, but been so nice about it, and you've actually given me a few ideas about what to do in later chapters! There are no words, and I am so happy you like my fic. So, you pointed out a possible mistake about Eugene being on the German line, and what you said is completely reasonable – so thank you! I probably didn't describe it as well as I should have. But Emilie was walking through the woods that form a kind of rough horse shoe shape around Foy; there was the German front, and then the American one less than a mile in front of it, with Easy in the centre. I'm just going with that, since Emilie was in her dazed, grief-stricken state, that she didn't realise how far she had walked. And, because the Americans were spread so thin and Germans were just walking straight through the line every which way, she was actually on American territory, where Gene was walking to clear his head or something. (; I hope that clears things up, and don't ever change! All my loooooooove._

_LovingBOBThePacific: Another awesome person that has stayed loyal to the story! You help to spur me on, so thank you so much. Don't you change, either. I get so excited when I see a review from you, especially since I love your own BOB stories. :D _

_And to everyone else, such as mrssteverodgers, Amanda and FFww2reviewerJC._

_Enjoy! The two Americans that mistook a German tank for a British one were Alley and Shames. I just had to include that bit ahaha. Sorry for the lack of actual dialogue in this one. I just thought the Bastogne chapters were dragging on longer than they needed to, so I decided to put it to an end. Hope that's okay with all of you, and, if it's not… Well, tough bananas. C: Also, I'm planning to start a whole other story with her flashbacks, so things don't get cluttered here. I'll have that up once I finish the main story. OH MY GOD I DON'T WANT IT TO END. xD _

_Wow it's more author note than actual story, this one..._

_xx_

The battle for Foy didn't end there, however. At 04:15 the following day, the Germans launched a vicious counterattack on the village with six tanks and a company of infantry – not Emilie's company this time, thank God. The General had agreed they needed a rest. That attack was repulsed by the Yanks, but then another with fourteen tanks and a battalion forced one of the American battalions out of Foy. Emilie's company remained in the woods, watching the commotion from relative safety, but even where she was there was much rejoicing; it was welcome, after the sadness of losing over 100 soldiers to the Americans. The unsympathetic General had bluntly reasoned that they still had around 90,000 good soldiers, so it was a small loss, but few had managed to see the bright side of the depressing situation. Besides, not all of the soldiers, many of them new recruits, were well-trained.

But they weren't able to hold onto Foy for long, and by 09:30 that same morning, the village was once again in American hands. The German soldiers came back weak and weary, with the numerous attacks being carried out in the most horrid of conditions. Emilie treated many wounds, but only those of the men able to drag themselves back to the woods. The others were left, lying in the snow surrounded by Americans, screaming for help. She had tried to cover her ears and squeeze her eyes shut, but nothing had been able to block out the heart-breaking sound. It still rang in her mind.

Next had come Noville. The Germans were running low on men by this point; she had wanted to laugh in the General's face after his earlier comment, but she hadn't dared. He already seemed on-edge, as did Heinrich Freiherr von Lüttwitz, the other general. The Germans had made a terrible tactical blunder: most of the troops had moved away from Bastogne towards Meuse, leaving only one German regiment behind to fend off the Americans and fool them into thinking they had more soldiers than they actually did. Emilie's company was, unfortunately, in that damned regiment.

Emilie had just kept her head down and did what she always did: try to help people. Of course, most of her efforts had been in vain. At one point, Hinkel had stopped shooting and started laughing from beside her, and she had turned to see something that had managed to put a sly, half-smile on her blood-spattered face. Two American soldiers had walked straight up to the side of a German tank, clearly mistaking it for a British Sherman, and had started talking to the tank commander. When he had turned to see the two Yanks, he had sworn and dropped back into the tank, traversing his turret towards the men.

They had taken off so quickly they were kicking up snow into the German's face; the tank had followed. One of the running Americans had seen an open window and had dived into it, head-first, in a way Emilie had only seen in movies. The other had run three or so metres past him before jumping into a doorway with his rifle ready. When the other Americans had seen the German tank coming towards them, they had dove for cover under knocked-out Shermans or behind walls. The German tank had put two shells into the already-screwed Shermans (which Emilie was sure would have given the Americans hiding under them quite a fright and an interesting story to tell the grandkiddies) before roaring north out of town in search of safety.

Emilie and all the other Germans that had stopped to laugh at the sight had promptly stopped grinning like a gang of Cheshire cats when they had spotted an Allied P-47 fighter plane. Some had tried to yell warnings to the tank, but it was already well out of hearing-range, and the men in the tank would have stood no chance of hearing them even if the tank had been just a metre from them. The plane had dropped a bomb on the unknowing tank, and destroyed it in an explosion of flames and metal.

Shortly after that, the Germans had retreated.

Back on the frontline, another American force of troops had managed to break through to Bastogne, and the Germans finally knew they didn't stand a chance. With the retreat of the Germans, the Siege of Bastogne was all but over. But the nightmares would haunt them forever more.


	34. A Freak Of Nature, Stuck In Reality

Emilie traced a thumb lightly over the picture she held in front of her, frowning down at it. It was a photo an American had taken that had accidentally been dropped; she had picked it up the day before, just after they had entered the French town of Hagenau. It was of thousands upon thousands of surrendered German soldiers, marching along the road with Americans driving alongside in army jeeps; there were only one or two armed men to guard the retreating Germans. She blinked, impressed. Even in defeat, they managed to march with such pride, such dignity. True soldiers. The type that would particularly struggle to settle back into civilian life once the war was over.

There she went again, always putting a negative spin on things. Well, if it was possible to make a surrender even more negative than it already was.

Setting the photograph aside, she stood up from where she had been sitting on her bed. Bed. It almost seemed surreal to her. Not a blood-stained cot, not a foxhole. A _real_ bed. One that smelled of damp rot, with springs missing and in desperate need of a good clean, granted, but a bed no less.

She had her own room; it wasn't that she was of a particularly high rank or anything, but, as she was a woman and medic, the men had come to a sort of unspoken agreement that she would have her own room whenever possible. Though it was a welcome change, with the snow outside instead of falling all around her, she couldn't help feeling rather lonely, scared of being left alone with her thoughts. It was like she was connected to her platoon, and to be away from them, even the men she hated, felt just plain _wrong_.

Emilie hopped on one foot over to the dirty window, not wanting to use her crutches for such a simple thing. Wiping away some of the dirt that had gathered on the glass, she pressed her forehead against it, hardly feeling the cold of it anymore after Bastogne, and let out a breath. It fogged up the glass a little. The sun was just setting, and, from her vantage point, she could see the Americans scurrying between buildings like frightened mice, scared they would be caught out in the open.

But neither side wanted to fight anymore. They knew they had to, so they would, but, if it was down to them, she knew the majority of both the Germans and the Americans would just walk away. They were tired of the hate, the fear, the pain, the sorrow. And now that they had roofs over their heads and a semi-warm-and-safe place to sleep at night, those feelings were heightened. But they were stubborn and deathly loyal to their countries, and no one wanted to go home and know there was more they could have done. No one wanted to lose.

"Sergeant Demont." There was a rapping on her door and she jumped, taking a moment to regain her composure before limping over to open the door. Beaming at her on the other side was Zimmermann, holding a tray of steaming hot food prepared by the _Feldkockunteroffizier_ and _Küchenbullen_, alongside a cup of tea. He offered her the tray, which she took with a smile. "I know you don't like coffee, so I asked for tea instead." He shrugged.

She let out a chuckle; it felt strange to think she was actually going to be eating hot food. In a real bedroom. Jesus. "Thanks a million, Zimmermann. Have you had anything to eat? How's your cold?" She knew she sounded like a mother hen, but, hey. They were all her boys.

As if on cue, he sniffled, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his grey jacket. "I brought your food to you first," he replied sheepishly, "I'll get something in a minute. I'm feeling better, my nose is just a little blocked. I should be fine in a day or two. I'm just happy to be out of Bastogne."

Emilie nodded, rearranging her grip on the tray and holding it against her side to pat him on the arm, smiling thinly. "We all are. Come see me if you start feeling worse again, you hear me?"

He nodded. It was odd seeing him with his helmet off. Turning, Zimmermann began to walk away, but she called him back.

"Oh, and Zimmermann?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For everything. You're a good friend."

He smiled, blushing. "I just brought you some food," he replied, and she laughed lightly. With that, he turned and made his way back down the stairs, which creaked under his weight. And she was once again left alone with her thoughts which quickly dropped back into darkness and memories of screaming men and blood the moment she clicked her door shut.

_Bang, bang. _

_Oh, Jesus Christ, Emilie, help me. It hurts. I don't want to die._

_Don't hate me for what I'm about to do, Emilie. I'm just trying to help you, like all the times you've helped us._

_I can't feel my legs. I feel so cold._

_Your brother is dead. This is your fault Emilie._

_You couldn't save us. You were right there, and you didn't do anything._

_Boom, boom._

With a shriek, she leapt back and the tray of food clattered to the dusty wooden floorboards before. Whimpering, she staggered backwards, running a hand through her knotted ginger hair. Her back pressed against the wall and she slid down so she was lying on the floor, her face buried in her hands. Her hands. Ones that still carried that metallic stench of warm blood, that would always look red to her no matter how many times she washed them. Hands that had once been so pale and small and _innocent_, drawing pictures and writing letters to her brother from boarding school, not stuck half-way up someone else's ribcage.

She wasn't who she used to be, a completely different person she could hardly remember. Now she had 'sergeant' in front of her name and a red cross on her helmet. How had that gotten there? She wasn't cut out to be a medic. She wasn't cut out to stare into the abyss of Hell, day after day after day. She had once dreamed of Heaven. Now she knew there was nothing.

Nothing but death.


	35. Memories Cannot Be Washed Away

"Sergeant! There's hot showers! _Hot showers!_"

Emilie raised her head, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Someone was yelling excitedly through her bedroom door, pounding their fists against it. She was just about to reply, when the frantic banging on the door ceased and she heard footsteps scurrying back down the stairs. Usually, she wouldn't have heard him; before the war, she was an incredibly deep sleeper. The end of the world couldn't have woken her. But now, she practically slept with one eye open. Because any day could very well be the end of the world.

She rolled her eyes, smiling thinly despite herself, and dragged herself out of the warm comfort of her bed. Glancing back, she saw that her sheets were strewn around the bed, the pillow halfway across the room, and the memories of the nightmare she had endured the night before came rushing back. That same fucking dream, with all the people she couldn't save. No matter how many times she had it, it never stopped terrifying her. How much guilt could one person hold? It was ridiculous and repetitive, but, _damn_, it hurt.

Last night had been the first time she had changed out of her uniform and into a short, black nightgown in… Well, she couldn't even remember how long. It was strange to have her legs and arms exposed, her collarbones actually visible. But the freedom didn't last long, and she was soon slipping out of it, putting her dirty bra back on, and then tugging on her cold, grey uniform. She shivered.

Tying up the last laces on her boots, she grabbed her crutches and wrapped her hand around the round, metal doorknob. But she misjudged the weight of the door, tensing her muscles when there was no need as it was so light, and, when she threw it open, she almost staggered backwards. Smoothing her uniform, she chuckled under her breath, thankful there had not been anyone around to witness her embarrassing moment.

Once she was down stairs, most of the men had already gone over to the showers. There were only a few troops left behind to watch the Americans and alert the Germans if there was any suspicious advancements; they were grumbling about how they wouldn't get to bathe until after everyone else came back. As she passed, one of the men grunted at her, muttering something along the lines of "oh, so _she_ gets to go, but we're stuck here? That seems fair."

Emilie ignored them, and continued on her way.

Once she arrived, her CO intercepted her, blushing a little. She could see the steam from the showers rising into the air like a fine mist. It reminded her of the thick fogs of Bastogne, which had made it near impossible to see more than five metres in front of your own nose… No, she couldn't think about that place.

"Demont," he greeted her sternly, but, after a moment, his face softened slightly. "Well, you are a woman…"

Emilie snorted. "Fantastic observation skills, Sherlock Holmes."

"And the rest of the soldiers are men," he continued, setting her with a steely glare intended to put her in her place. But she just smirked back at him. She could see where this was going, but let him say it anyway, just to see if he could get any more uncomfortable. It was stupid, what he was saying. He continued, "I strongly suggest you wait until everyone else is done before bathing, to avoid… Making things… How do I put this? Awkward."

Like she had said: stupid. She and the men had been through a hell of a lot worse, but still the differences in male and female anatomy kept them apart. Well, boys would be boys, and boys could be extremely immature. Rolling her eyes, she nodded. "Fine. I'll wait my turn, sir."

He dipped his head, before turning on his heel and walking briskly away.

Emilie took a seat on a rickety wooden chair that had been thrown out of someone's house and left on the sidewalk, on the other side of the tents where the men were showering so she could see no more than silhouettes inside. She could hear them singing a German song, and smiled slightly. Some had good voices, while others were terribly off-key, but, still. There was something so joyous about hearing them so care-free, after all they had faced.

A soldier walked past, looking clean and cheerful after his shower, walking proudly and showing off his fresh uniform. She recognised him. He was a Polish man who had been kidnapped by the Allies in Normandy. After he had been released, everyone had gathered around to hear his stories, which he had been more than happy to share with them. One had been about a time he had been interrogated; an American had asked how the German front-line troops had been able to stand up to the air and naval poundings. The Pole had told him, "Your bombs were very persuasive, but the sergeant behind me with a pistol in his hand was more so."

That had been everyone's favourite story, and, though Emilie had laughed along with everyone else (the thought of how close she had once been with her men made her heart ache painfully), it had also reminded her just how strict the German army was, to what lengths they would go to reinforce orders. And still she purposely tried to break as many rules as possible. She was lucky she hadn't had a bullet put through her brain yet.

It seemed to Emilie that she had waited at least two hours by the time her CO approached her and told her she could go in, also handing her a fresh uniform that she took gratefully, perhaps a bit too eagerly. But no one in their right mind, or even someone out of their mind, would turn down clean clothes after over 70 days of being in the same, stinking ones.

Once the water was running, she discovered the promise of scolding hot water had been a lie. It was luke-warm at best, she didn't even want to know how clean the water was, and the hard ground stunk of the filth hundreds of soldiers had washed off, but she honestly couldn't find it in herself to care. The shower was amazing.

Emilie let down her hair, after a little struggle of not being able to undo the knots, and let the water run through it. Her bright, auburn locks darkened and straightened as the water washed out the dirt and sweat, and it clung to her chest. She leaned down to scoop up a half-dissolved bar of slippery soap and rubbed it into a lather before working it into her hair. She let out a contented sigh. The water seemed to sooth her aching muscles, and it was as though all the tension and memories of the past dreadful months was washed off along with the dust.

Only when she turned off the water, droplets clinging to her skin and dripping from her eyelashes, did she remember one critical part of showers: a towel. At first she cursed under her breath, but she was quickly laughing softly, shaking her head at how stupid she was for forgetting a goddamn towel. Brushing her hair over her shoulders after ringing as much of the water out of it as she could, and wiping the water from her eyes with her hands, she picked up her new uniform and started to put it on, struggling a little as the fabric stuck to her damp skin. But, finally, she was standing, bare-foot, in her uniform, her boots and old clothes tucked under her arm.

She could hear the steady tapping as the remaining water dripped slithered down her hair and landed on the ground. Limping out of the tent, she was confronted by the sight of what must have been half of her platoon, sitting around, watching her and snickering. Even Eberhardt was amongst them, leering with his arms folded across his chest, and the thought of him seeing anything made her sick. Oh, so he couldn't stand her the rest of the time, but at the first sign she was naked, he was there. Men.

"See anything you like, boys?" she teased, hoping they wouldn't be able to see her cheeks and neck reddening. That was the problem with being ginger: it was hard to hide when you were embarrassed or upset, what with the fair skin and freckles.

They just grinned back, and she rolled her eyes, heading back towards her quarters as quickly as possible; she could feel their eyes tracing her every step as she walked. Maybe she should have gone bathing in the sewers instead. At least they were private.


	36. Merry Ol' Times Don't Count For Nothing

All was quiet on the front.

The Americans all seemed to be indoors; the last they had seen of them was when two Yank officers had been standing by the river, waving papers around as if they wanted to be shot at. But the Germans had been too tired to do anything. One man had actually fallen asleep at his post, and that hadn't gone down well. But they just weren't being given sufficient time for recuperation. Emilie had tried to bring it up, arguing that it was both physically and mentally impossible and unhealthy for anyone to go this long in the worst conditions and then not have enough time to build their strength back up.

But they were hardened soldiers, the officers had said, and she had been brushed aside. Her CO had seemed to agree with her, but he had remained silent in the presence of his superiors. She had never known him to be so weak. The Germans still fired at anything that moved, though; one American caught out in daylight would draw sniper or mortar fire; two or more men would mean a shell from an 88. They weren't willing to take any chances. They wanted to make it out of this war; after all, the finish line was insight. And so they grew eyes in the backs of their heads. No one wanted to be picked off now.

Now Emilie was walking – or, rather, hobbling in her crutches which, surprisingly, she still wasn't one hundred per cent adjusted to – behind the buildings, her stomach full. Yet still she felt sick. Other men had come to her after experiencing the same nausea after eating a whole meal, and she had explained that, since they had gone so long living mostly on k-rations, their bodies weren't used to the plentiful food, and its reflex was to throw up. She had then told them to ease into the transition, to eat a little more each day. That hadn't been a welcomed suggestion. But she had still thought that maybe she was the exception, that she could eat freely. Boy, had she been wrong. She should have known by now that things never went in her favour.

Once she reached the end of the cover of the houses, Emilie still wasn't ready to turn back. So, relying on the safety of darkness, as it was a night without a moon like a giant, unblinking white eye staring down at them from above, she took another chance and walked out from behind the buildings, making her way quickly along the uneven, open ground. But all was still quiet. Crickets chirped in the reeds by the river, frogs croaked, but other than that, her silent shadow was her only friend.

As she came to a small, old wooden shed that stood on a sort of bridge that ran over the dark, gurgling river below, she was just about to admit defeat and head back when a dark, moving shape on the other side of the river caught her eye. She peered into the darkness. It was definitely an American soldier, she knew that much for sure; they carried a unique scent, just as the Germans, Japanese and every other army did, which she could just detect on the breeze. "_Fuck_," she breathed. Would they take medics as prisoners? Usually, no, but who knew anymore in this war?

But then she spotted a white armband tied around the man's left arm, and let out a breath she hadn't even realised she had been holding. It felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her lungs. Not even knowing what she was doing, she edged open the wooden door, which creaked, and stepped inside. She heard Eugene's footsteps outside cease as he heard the sound. Should she be regretting what she was doing? Probably. But she just needed to see a somewhat-friendly face, to make sure his bloody body she saw in her dreams night after night hadn't become a reality.

The other door opened, and Eugene poked his head in cautiously.

"Boo," she greeted, smirking when she saw him jump slightly and his muscles tense.

Clearly, he didn't recognise her voice, as he called out softly, "Flash."

"Thunder," she replied, deepening her voice mockingly.

Emilie saw him frown in the half-light of the shed. The only light came from the half-concealed moon, its soft rays flooding in through a dusty window. She must have looked like a ghost. "Miss Demont?" he asked tentatively.

"The one and only."

She could practically hear what he was thinking, his contradictory thoughts: he shouldn't allow himself to be cornered with a Kraut; could he really trust her?; did this count as treason?; what did she want? But, finally, he slipped into the shed, closing the door behind him. By this time, Emilie's eyes had adjusted to the dark, and, as she had been trained in basic, she could see almost as well as in the day.

"How did you know the password?" he asked, almost suspiciously.

She shrugged. "Gene, I've been living in close quarters with you Yanks since Normandy," she answered simply.

"I should raise the alarm," Eugene warned, and she felt her heart sink. He was right. She was trespassing. But his threat sounded almost… Half-hearted. As if he didn't really want to. She couldn't afford to dwell on why.

Emilie shrugged, resting against a work bench. "So do it," she countered, locking eyes with him, daring him to do anything. When he didn't, she continued. "But that would mean more death, for both sides." She took a small step forward; he looked prepared to retreat, but he held his ground. "Eugene, I don't want anyone to get hurt, German, American or even Japanese. I don't see the uniform; just the person. If one of my supposed enemies was wounded, I would help them, and I know you would, too. Our duty is to help people, and, though that doesn't always work out the way I had planned, I'm bloody well going to try."

He was quiet for a few moments, the only sound their breathing. Then, eventually, he pursed his lips and nodded. "What are you doin' here? It's not that it's bad to see ya, but ain't it a risk, you comin' here? None of the others would refrain from shootin' long enough to ask you your side of the story."

Emilie smiled slightly, crookedly. "Things aren't so great for me back on the other side of the river," she told him softly.

"What do you mean, miss Demont?"

"You can call me Emilie, you know," she reminded him with a light giggle that sounded a little too feminine for her liking. "Mister Roe."

She was delighted to see him smile a little, amused. It was nice to know she could still feel something at the best of times, that she wasn't completely devoid of all emotion. No, in fact, ever since she was a little girl, she had, if anything, felt too much. When she loved, she loved with all her heart. When she hated, her loathing consumed her. And when she was in pain, guilty and sorrowful and broken… Well, it defined her.

When Eugene didn't say anything, simply waited for her to answer his question, she replied. "One of the little bastards has spread lies about me, that I'm an…" She eyed him uncertainly, "American sympathiser, that I'll turn on my people, that I'm not to be trusted. Half the men believe him, and, well, they've made it their job to make my life a living Hell." She let out a sigh, dropping her eyes, grinding her teeth together.

Once again, deafening silence gripped them for a few moments. Then Eugene's gentle, soothing drawl filled her ears. "Then they don't know what kind of a person they're throwin' away."

Suddenly, all she could hear was the pounding of her heart in her ears, seeming to drown out any common sense that she may have had before. Before she had time to think about what the bloody hell she was doing and the consequences it could have for both of them, Emilie had raised herself to her tip-toes and was pressing her lips softly to Eugene's. She felt him freeze in surprise, but still he didn't resist.

But then reason slammed back into Emilie's mind and she stumbled backwards, breaking the kiss. Eugene was staring at her in shock, his mouth still partially open, that little crease between his eyebrows again. She looked down, shaking her head, inwardly kicking herself. "I-I'm sorry," she stammered, struggling to get her breathing back under control, "I just… Well, fuck, I wanted to know what it would be like. Sorry, I'm a moron. You won't have to deal with me again. Have a good night."

She turned and began to walk back towards the door, but, before she reached it, she felt Eugene grab her arm and she was suddenly being slammed against the dusty wall, her crutches flying out of her grip. Emilie looked up to meet his dark blue eyes, and there was a… Hunger in them, so much emotion packed into a gaze that was usually so calm and collected and encrypted. She didn't miss it when his eyes paused on her mouth and he licked his lips.

Eugene pressed his lips to hers, but the kiss was rougher now, more urgent and insistent. She didn't struggle, far from it. She could faintly feel one of his warm hands on her hips, the other working through her hair. Emilie reached up and fastened her fingers around his shirt collar, pulling him closer. She could hardly breathe, but she didn't care. It was damn near bliss. He smelt different than he had in Bastogne, and it was evident he had also had a shower. But that amazing musky scent was still there.

"Je t'aime, Eugene Roe," she moaned against his lips, and the French seemed to excite him as his tongue began to dance against her own; normally, she knew he would have asked her how she knew how to say that in French. And she simple would have replied that it had come rushing back to her. Right now, however, she was finding it difficult to think straight. "Je vois ai aimés dès le premier moment que je t'ai rencontré. Mon coeur est à toi seul pour toujours et toujours."

Emilie took the moment when their mouths broke apart for a split second to catch his bottom lip gently between her front teeth. She lifted her leg up behind his knees, pulling him even closer so she could feel his heart pummelling against her chest; this was one of the times when she blessed her ballet flexibility. She threw her head back and he trailed kisses along her jawline, making an excited moan fly out of her lips without meaning to. But he didn't seem to mind.

One of her hands snaked through his black hair, and it was even softer than she had expected it to be. Damn, she was done lying. Yeah, she had been envisioning coursing her fingers through his hair. Sue 'er. An explosion sounded somewhere in the distance, muffled by their closeness and the fact they were in the shed, and they both dismissed it; the Germans and Americans had been firing regular mortars at each other, but people were rarely hurt. Besides, they heard no call for a medic. They probably should have run back to their armies, but, at that moment, they were too caught up in their own little world. Irresponsible. Dumb.

Finally, their lips broke apart and Emilie's eyes flickered open to see Eugene blinking down at her. Their breaths were coming in gasps, and she could feel a light layer of sweat gathering on the back of her neck. Just when she was finally clean, too. "Well," she managed to whisper. His hair was ruffled, his cheeks flushed. She was pleased to see that his lips were a little red and puffy from where they had been slammed against her own. She could still taste him, tasting strangely like the most delicious chocolate she had ever encountered, and she licked her lips to savour it.

"I…" His eyes briefly flicked down nervously, before he once again met her gaze. She could steal feel his heart, his breathing, the warmth of his body she never would have thought she would have gotten the chance to experience up close. "I needed to get rid of some nervous tension. Stress."

Emilie couldn't suppress the playful smile that tugged at her lips. "Well, soldier boy," she laughed, shaking her head and resting it back against the wall, "I'm happy to be of assistance, and I wouldn't be against helping you get rid of some of that stress again. Wow, if this is what psychiatrists get, I'm in the wrong line of work, let me tell you that." Lowering her leg from where she had forgotten it was still tucked securely around his legs, she drew it back to her, letting out another shallow breath. "See? Not all Krauts are bad."

Eugene smiled shyly, letting his hands fall slowly from her waist, his fingers still lingering there for a moment. It felt as though he were still gripping her there, as though he had left an imprint of himself against her skin, her very being. She knew that was stupidly poetic, but it was true. She wanted to apologise for what she had said in French earlier, but she was unwilling to ruin the moment, though it hadn't exactly been romantic, more blissfully ferocious. Just as she liked. She hadn't meant what she had said, about loving him from the moment she had met him and her heart belonging to him forever and always. Had she? No, she hardly knew him. But that didn't stop her heart from feeling as though, whenever she was around him, the final puzzle piece had finally fallen into place…

Suddenly, a panicked American voice rang out somewhere outside, probably about 20 metres away, and both of them froze. "Where the hell is the doc?" the man yelled, and she heard footsteps run past.

Gene glanced to the door, then back at Emilie, almost regretfully. The redness of his cheeks had begun to subside, but she hoped the memories wouldn't fade with it. Well, why should she or he care? Honestly. It was meaningless. And yet she couldn't quite manage to convince herself of that.

He ran a hand through his hair in a near-useless attempt to smooth it. "I have to go," he told her, voice low and accent thickened in that way that made her stomach twist with longing. "I'm sorry."

She nodded. "I understand, Gene. Go."

With one last look at her, he turned and disappeared back through the door he had come in through. Outside, he heard his voice join with another man's.

"God, Gene! Am I glad to see you. Where the fuck have you been? Never mind. Follow me. Jackson's been wounded by his own goddamn grenade during that POW mission. It's bad."

"Okay. Lead the way. _Hurry!_"

Emilie felt all the colour drain from her face as everything fell into place. That explosion she had heard. It had been grenades and other artillery. POW mission? Goddamn, the Yanks must have crossed the river to take German prisoners. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. And where had she been? Snogging an enemy soldier in a shed. How had she not heard it? How had she not heard the screams, felt the explosions and the rumble of bombs? What kind of a medic was she?

_A/N: Pardon my French. Literally. Please correct any mistakes you might find. C:_

_Whoooooooooo. Okay. Plot development yay! No time for taking it slow in war. This is my first one of 'those' chapters, so I hope it's not too terrible aha. I'm a bit self-conscious about this one. :B But not everything will be hunky-dory for Emilie and Gene now. Oh, no, far from it. Remember, my friends, we still have the concentration camp to get to. And I expect her being on the side of the Germans won't go down well… Aha._

_Also, in case anyone is wondering, yes, Emilie will meet Easy Company up close and personal. In fact, the last few chapters will be about her with them in Berchtesgaden and beyond. But I won't tell you too many spoilers ahaha!_

_Enjoy, and review if you like. :D That last moment was me playing on the fact that Gene wasn't there to help Jackson at the first sign of trouble, which was very unlike him. So I made up a lil' explanation just to tie things in to the bigger picture. No disrespect intended to the real, incredible veterans, of course._

_xx_


	37. I'm Troubled By Ghosts In Heaven

"What happened?" Emilie yelled, switching back to Deutsch fluidly, as she erupted into a building where some of the men were gathered, breathless. "Who's hurt?" She had a painful, nagging cramp in the flesh at the back of her shin, but she paid no attention to it.

Only a few men turned to her, snarling questions like "and where have you been?" But the rest remained silent, sitting down with their shoulders hunched and the butt of their guns resting against their foreheads. Defeated. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, filling her nostrils and tickling her nose so she had to stifle a sneeze.

Her CO was staring glumly out an open window that faced the huge 205mm railway gun that lay a few kilometres away, that had been used in World War I and fired shells as large as the 16-inch naval guns that had supported the Americans at Utah beach during Normandy. They still used it now, in Hagenau, to counter the American's own artillery.

He turned to face her, his voice deadly but exhausted. "The Americans have taken an Unteroffizier and a Feldwebel prisoner. They would have taken a third, but that man was wounded by a bullet that punctured his lungs and has been left to die on the river bank. No one can get to him without drawing fire. He is dying a slow and painful death. They came across the river on boats like ghosts in the night. We had little time to react, and by that time, it was already too late." She saw him swallow; he was clearly struggling to remain calm and collected. When he finally spoke again, his voice was stiff, anger forced down. "And where, sergeant Demont, were _you?_"

Emilie's eyes widened as she struggled to take it all in. Finally, she managed to croak, "No excuse, sir." She cleared her throat and tried again, though her voice still wavered slightly. What had been unimaginable joy not fifteen minutes ago had become an unspeakable tragedy and another name to add to her list of people she had gotten killed. But the others had all been clean, quick deaths, with no pain, and at least that had been some consolation: Kattenstroht, Drechsler, Tobias. But now there was that man, with a drawn-out, agonising death, panicking because he couldn't suck in enough air, all alone. "I'm… so sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" her CO roared through gritted teeth, spittle erupting from his mouth and flying into the air, before collecting himself and turning his back to her, rubbing his forehead with one hand. He let out a sigh, voice lower now. "Be _here_ when we _need_ you."

Saluting weakly, which made her feel even more terrible as she was usually so strong and unbreakable even in the toughest of situations (well, at least, she _had_ been before the war), Emilie turned, grabbed a pistol from one of the tables the men were sitting at, and limped out of the building, jaw set so they wouldn't see her quivering chin. She had been yelled at before and had hardly blinked; indeed, she had often purposely provoked her ranking officers just to get a reaction. But never for such serious matters. And now it hurt more than ever.

The men mumbled curiously, the man she had taken the gun from calling out after her questioningly, demanding his pistol back, but she ignored them all. "Where are you going?" her CO called out after her, "What are you doing with that gun? You are a medic; you fight wounds, not people." People. Most officers called them 'soldiers', as though they were no longer human beings.

"I'm going to go get my soldier back," she replied, voice low, cocking the pistol, "Even if I only bring back his corpse."


	38. Memories Flood And Make Me Shudder

It was even worse than Emilie could have imagined. She had missed it when she had returned from the barn, going around the back way. But now she was confronted with flames ten feet high, the fires so eerie in a war where no one dared light so much as a match in fear of being spotted; various buildings had been reduced to rubble, and it brought back memories of her time in Bastogne with Rene. That's why all the men had been gathered on the outskirts of the village, seeking refuge where no mortars could reach them. Bullet holes were evident everywhere, but what caught her attention was that they were exactly where the German positions had been; so the Yanks had been watching and paying attention after all. Now, the Germans were firing back with all they had, trying to compensate for the soldiers they had lost by taking some American lives. It was a cruel game, war.

Emilie ducked from cover to cover, stopping every few seconds to let a German bomb fall on the other side of the river before moving again. The 205mm was being put to use, and it could destroy entire buildings with one shell.

Somewhere, a cat yowled, and, for some strange reason, Emilie remembered the tabby cat that had been in the alley in Eindhoven when she had first met Eugene. _Now is not the time to get all soppy and weak-kneed over Roe._ Out of the edge of her vision, she saw one of the men her CO had sent to accompany and protect her (thankfully, he had purposely chosen men that were still on her side) bend down over some rubble and scoop the ginger, ash-blanketed cat into his arms, cradling it against his neck. Even from this distance, she could hear the cat purring scratchily, and could imagine the smoke swirling around in the poor creature's lungs. The surgeon's words rang in her ears: _why did defenceless animals have to get dragged into this? _Selfish, arrogant humans.

Well, at least her current loathing of her race detracted somewhat from her hatred of herself.

From up ahead, Emilie could hear a ghastly wheezing, choking, gurgling sound on the bank of the river; the would-be-prisoner that had been abandoned by the Americans. Emilie fought to quell the rage and sorrow that stirred within her, but to no avail. They were now dangerously close to where the shells landed, and every time one did, earth and rocks were sent flying over Emilie's head. She barely managed to duck each time, as did everyone else, but evade they did. The bombing was persistent and unrelenting, driven by pain and the need for revenge; everyone, despite themselves, found immense pleasure in destruction, even if they tried to deny it. After all, war touched on man's most violent passions: hatred and the pushed-down urge to kill. It was more brilliant than the best fireworks display, and Emilie hated herself for admitting that.

"Does anyone know his name?" she hissed to the men that had crouched down beside her, not taking her eyes of the shape of the writhing, wounded soldier just a few metres from her, crying out for help with gasping breaths, hands clawing at the air.

Karl, to her right, shook his head sadly. "He's from another company. We don't—" He was cut off as another rock sailed over his head, narrowly missing it. He looked over his shoulder, eyes making saucers look positively tiny in comparison.

Emilie threw her battered crutches aside and fumbled blindly in her medic bag for a syrette of morphine, turning to him as she did so. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen." No one interrupted her or even seemed to register they were being given orders by a woman. No, in fact, they looked so distraught that they just wanted to be told what to do, as to not feel so helpless and lost. But her eyes didn't soften with sympathy like they usually would have. They simply hardened. "I'm going to go get him and drag him back here." Her gaze swept over the gathered soldiers, one still stroking the cat, face blank. "You three stay here and lay down some covering fire, can you do that? Look for the glint of a reflection of the flames on a gun over the river. And, whatever you do, try not to get me killed, yeah? Yeah."

_Okay. Deep breaths. You've faced worse than this before. _She still felt a little shaky and light-headed after her meeting with Eugene, and had to block it out of her head. His eyes, his lips, his hand in her hair… _No, Jesus Christ, Demont! Fucking concentrate! You aren't in love with him. You have to get this done. This man is more important than that Yank. _Steadying herself and preparing to scramble to the bank, she risked a glance to the men beside her. The man had since set down th cat, thank God. They all looked terrified but resilient, ready to defend their medic and friends. When they saw her looking at them, they turned and each offered a small, forced smile, which she returned. One mouthed the words 'good luck'. She was so proud of them, despite the fact they were mostly older than her.

Straight after a bomb had exploded and sprayed up freezing water and reeds sparkling with frost, there was a very brief lull, and Emilie took her chance, rushing forward as best she could on her still-injured foot. She threw herself down still a few metres away from the man with a grunt as a shell landed, covering her head with her hands. "I'm coming for you, soldier!" she yelled at the top of her lungs in order to be heard over the gunfire, and the German twisted and arched his back, trying to speak but failing as his torn lungs made it impossible. She could hear the soldiers behind her laying down spurts of covering fire that whizzed over her head, but that all faded into the background. She could only hear her breathing, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, and the gasps of the fallen man in front of her.

But, just as she began to crawl forward, she caught sight of two shadows on the opposite side of the wide river's bank, pulling pins on their grenades. Emilie had two options: throw herself onto the wounded soldier to protect him from the inevitable, potentially-deadly blast that might actually be a kindness to him, or run back to safety. Against her better half that was screaming at her to save the man, she chose the cowardly option, and barely had time to scramble behind some rubble before the grenade exploded near the soldier; the other explosive, the one near her, was a dud, thankfully. Or maybe that was a bad thing, that it hadn't killed her.

She tried once again to get to the German when she peeked her head over the rubble and saw the shadows disappear back into their outpost, but scrabbled back once again when they returned and lobbed over more grenades; each one exploded this time. But the German couldn't seem to let go of life, and the horrible, soul-shattering, _desperate_ wheezing continued, much to the Americans' annoyance. They disappeared once more, but this time didn't return.

Emilie tried over and over and over again until she was battered and bruised from throwing herself down all over the place. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get to him. She was near tears at that point. So close, but just out of reach, as though fate were teasing her.

"Sergeant Demont," Karl called softly from behind her, "We must go back. The sun is rising and we cannot be caught outside in the daylight, not if we want to stay alive."

Suddenly, anger derived from frustration and a sense of uselessness forced itself up her throat and she spun around, eyes crazed and desperate. "I am not leaving him alone out here!" she snapped, still clutching the morphine so tight she thought it was going to burst, "Who are we to be able to head back to safety and a nice, hot cup of tea when he is fighting for his life? We can't decide who lives and who dies, just like that."

The men all exchanged a concerned glance. They all knew that, when she got like this, there was no talking her out of whatever she had her mind set on.

Just then, the bombing stopped, so suddenly, filling the air with nothing but blissful silence. No one dared move, no one dared so much as breathe. Even the world itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting to see if it would start up again. When it didn't, all that could be heard was that blasted coughing and pitiful moaning by the river bank. Emilie was about to charge forward, eyes set on the injured man and nothing else, (the complete opposite of the first thing she had been taught in the army: don't go anywhere without checking out your surroundings first) when Karl grabbed her arm and yanked her back, far rougher than Eugene had, almost sending her tumbling onto her back.

He dragged her behind a half-destroyed wall, ignoring her wild thrashing. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she cried, voice shrill and strangled.

Karl set her down, still holding onto her arm so she couldn't make a run for it. When she didn't settle down, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder and pointed to an American soldier approaching the other bank, eyes flicking from side to side, wary of being out in the open. Emilie watched in horror as he got close enough and threw over a grenade before jogging back into a building. In a cloud of dirt, the wheezing finally stopped.

He had to clasp a hand over Emilie's mouth in order to stop her from yelling. She punched Karl in the shin, with just enough strength that she knew it would hurt him and make him release her without leaving any damage, and dragged herself into a crouch, looking out around the wall to see the German soldier, his body mangled by the grenade. She searched for the rise and fall of his chest with huge eyes, for any twitch of his muscles to tell her he was still alive. But, alas, there was only once conclusion she could draw.

Dead.


	39. Moving Out

Winter was coming to an end, but still it snowed. It wasn't as bad as it had been in Bastogne – 'bad' was quite the under-statement – but still it was cold, miserable, and no one took their warm beds for granted. Every time Emilie went outside, to dart from building to building in order to check in on the soldiers, she was greeted by snow: frozen on top so it was crunchy and loud underfoot. Everyone said they would have been able to hear them in Berlin.

She was the only one permitted outside in daylight, joy oh joy. Some men had tried to bring up the soldier that had died on the bank, to say they had been watching her efforts and that she had done all she could, but she had refused to let them talk about it. When they attempted to, she would either walk on and pretend she hadn't heard them, or simply interrupt them and change the topic. They soon got the message.

The down side of living indoors was there was nowhere to hide from Eberhardt. He had learnt of the dead man, and hadn't been quite so merciful, to say the least. She should have taken that pistol and shot him between the eyes. She was sure no one would have minded. A simple "oops, my finger slipped" would probably suffice. But she was still just not that person. Funny. What was she doing in the army then? Drafted or not, she could have run away, back to being a nurse and helping in some other way. But she couldn't do that. This was who she was now. This was her life. These were her men.

Eventually, the Americans she knew as the 101st Airborne were moved into reserve, and Emilie felt a great sense of relief, mixed with remorse and plain, unbridled anger. Relief because at least Eugene and his friends would be out of immediate danger; remorse because she could possibly never see him again, though fate always seemed to throw them ruthlessly together; and anger because, just as much as anyone else, she wanted revenge on the men that had given that man on the bank an agonizing death. But she couldn't dwell on it. She couldn't.

But she did.

Within an hour of the new American soldiers taking their place in the OP2, the Germans pin-pointed them and Emilie watched coldly as the shells landed smack-bang on their target that had already taken quite a beating. But she couldn't remain emotionless, not when she saw the enemy soldiers running about, scared and looking for somewhere, _anywhere_, to take shelter.

Then she and the others were dragged away from their beds and the rooms they had made theirs, and there were mixed feelings. Of course they wanted to stay in relative comfort, but, somehow, the entire time they had been indoors, it hadn't felt quite right. They were soldiers now. They lived in the dirt, in foxholes. They weren't civilians anymore, and few could ever properly adjust back to that easy life.


	40. This Pain Is Just Too Real

_A/N: Ahahah, so, sorry. I just needed to interrupt this to tell you a funny, lil' thing that happened to me a few days ago. I was taking to my Oma, who's German, and she's talking about her cousin, Ruth, who still lives in Germany. And then she mentions Ruth's son and how he goes hunting a lot and stuff. And I just freeze and turn to her and say "what was his name?" "Eberhardt." And I just started grinning like an idiot. Well, then. Ahem._

_On with the show!_

_Also, in one of the last chapters, some facts: when the German soldier was dying on the river bank, the Americans that unsuccessfully tried to kill him with grenades numerous times were Webster and Marsh (they had wanted to put him out of his misery, reasoning that, if the Germans managed to retrieve and save him, he could give them all this information and then they would bomb the Americans more). The one that finally did manage to kill him after the wheezing grew too irritating was Cobb. _

_Enjoy. xx_

"I haven't been so close to home in over two years."

Emilie glanced over to see that Ehrlichmann, the surgeon, had joined her. She was seated on a grassy hill where all the snow had melted away, just outside the town the Germans were currently occupying; in the distance, she could just see the lights of Dachau, a small, medieval town about 16km northwest of Munich in upper Bavaria. The icy breeze wafting over from there carried an odd, pungent scent, one Emilie had smelled too many times before; one of death and rotting flesh and bodies being burnt in fires. But she thought little of it. Few places in the world were untouched by the horrors of the war, and that meant death everywhere she went.

She had her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms tucked around her shins, trying to keep in as much warmth as she possibly could. Winter was drawing to a close, true, but it wasn't finished just yet. It had more left up its sleeve, and Emilie could feel it. Europe was having its worst winter in a long, long time.

She forced a smile and gestured for him to take a seat beside her. He obliged, and lowered himself with a grunt. She could hear his bones creaking from the cold, despite the fact he was probably only about two years her senior. He, like everyone else, had barely begun to live.

They were inside the border of Germany, tantalisingly close to home. But, while everyone else was rejoicing at that fact, she was far more apprehensive. What did she have to go home to? The other soldiers seemed too blinded by the thought of being reunited with their loved ones to remember the Nazi occupation. The mere thought made her skin crawl. The German civilians had voted Hitler in, sucked in by promises of change and a stronger country. They hadn't known what they were getting themselves into, the monster they were allowing to gain power. But now they were too scared to do anything, so they marched on parade before their Führer and cheered him as he passed in the streets, and then raced home and cowered and prayed for the end of his murderous reign.

Emilie and her company were stationed here, waiting to see if the soldiers stationed at the Ruhr needed any reinforcements. So far, they had gotten no radio plead for help, but everyone was still tense, not willing to get comfortable in case they had to run away again.

"Which part do you come from?" Emilie asked, plucking a stem of grass from the ground and running it distractedly through her fingers.

Ehrlichmann struggled to open his pocket for a moment, eventually having to pull of his thick gloves and try again with cussing under his breath. Emilie chuckled and he looked up, smiling sheepishly. But soon, he triumphed over his pesky pocket and pulled something crinkled and bent out, handing it to her. It was a photo. She took it from him and held it up, allowing the silver light of the moon to bathe it. Pictured prominently was a small cottage with an apple tree out front, and three people standing at the front door, smiling happily. She recognised Ehrlichmann on the right, wearing simple clothes, with his arm slung around another, taller man's. An older woman with lines creasing her face stood beside them. "Wiesbaden."

She looked up at the man beside her, who was staring down at the picture wistfully with a small, almost non-existent smile. "My mother and older brother," he explained in a soft voice, "My father died when I was three, so she raised us on her own." He broke off into a laugh before continuing. "We didn't make it easy on her, mind you. This was taken a month before the war started. I was a doctor and a carpenter on the side. My brother fled into the Alps to avoid being drafted, leaving my mother all alone. She didn't mind, though. She was so proud of me, but she wanted to know that at least one of her sons would be safe." Her eyes flicked back to the picture she was still holding, but, when he didn't go on, her gaze was once again on him just in time to see him wipe tears from his eyes before they fell. He shook his head, taking back the picture. His fingers tips lingered over it for a few seconds, before he tucked it back into his pocket. "Sorry. It's just… Now I'm so close to being home, but I know I won't be able to go visit my mother. I must sound pitiful."

Emilie shook her head, expression sympathetic, smiling sadly. It was foreign for her to think that someone actually got along with their family, but also somewhat refreshing. She was faintly aware of the little bluebird and the dog pendant stabbing into her legs, and her heart squeezed painfully at the thought of Tobias, making her feel suddenly empty and lost. She let the grass she had been fiddling with be collected by the breeze, and absently watched it drift into the darkness surrounding them. "You'll get to see her," she assured him, though she wasn't sure what right she had to be telling him that. How could she possibly know? "And your brother. If not now, then after the war. The thought of them will keep you going." She trailed off, looking down, her voice suddenly quiet. "Thinking of my brother gave me strength. Now…" She let out a sigh. "Sorry, that's selfish. We're talking about you."

She saw Ehrlichmann train his gaze on her for a long moment out of the corner of her eye, before his eyes flicked to the distance. "I'm sorry," he told her gently, "About your brother. I don't even want to know how I would feel if I lost mine."

"I don't want to talk about it." Emilie's voice suddenly came out sharp and abrupt, the protective bars designed to keep people out slamming down around her once more. They had abandoned her for a few months, and she wasn't sure whether she was relieved or upset they had now returned. A part of her had liked being able to let people in, but another half had hated it with a passion. She had been scared. Like Muck had said all those moons ago, back in Eindhoven, she was a lone wolf. But even lone wolves can't last long without a pack to watch their back. Like that old saying went: "the wolf's strength is the pack; the pack's strength is the wolf". Though she wasn't sure about that. In her unstable condition, she wasn't much help to anyone. And no one could help her.

Before Ehrlichmann could protest, Emilie was on her feet and storming away on her crutches. She knew she was being ridiculous, that he was just trying to offer some comfort. But all he had managed to do was rub salt in a fresh, throbbing wound that seemed unable to ever heal. And maybe she liked it that way. Maybe she needed to suffer, just like all the people she had sent to their deaths.


	41. Promises, Promises

The chill in the air was slowly lifting, though the skies were still dark and clouded, as though they were constantly blanketed by a thick layer of ashen smoke. The blossoms on trees were struggling to break through, barely more than buds. The snow was beginning to relent, but now they had freezing rain to worry about, turning the ground into a bog. At least it melted the lingering snow. Soldiers began to shed their heavier winter clothing, but they still rugged up. It wasn't warm just yet.

No request for reinforcements came through, but that meant there were soldiers with too much energy and too little to do – a dangerous combination. The officers increased exercises and organised sport, but still there were many men getting drunk. The officers attempted to crack down on this, to the point they threatened to shoot anyone they found drunk on the streets. Their threats were mostly futile, however, much to their chagrin. Emilie was tempted more than once by the alcohol, but she forced herself to remain sober; what if someone needed her?

At that moment, interrupting Emilie's troubled thoughts, someone tapped her on the shoulder and she turned to see Zimmermann standing behind her, looking unusually glum. "CO's called a meeting," he told her, dark, heavy bags under his eyes.

Frowning, she nodded and followed him into a building where her platoon was already waiting, her CO standing at the front of the room. When they entered, he looked up and raised his eyebrows. "Nice of you to finally join us, Sergeant Demont."

She didn't respond, simply raised her eyebrows straight back at him as she walked around the back of the seated men and took a seat in the far left corner of the room, crossing her legs, leaning back and waiting for him to continue. Zimmermann sat down in the chair beside her, a little closer than he need have.

Clearing his throat and lifting his icy glare from Emilie, her CO began to speak, addressing the entire platoon. "All our forces defending the Ruhr have surrendered," he announced, his words met my muttering and horrified looks, "That is more than 325,000 men. People may say that we do not stand a chance, but I am not one of them. We will fight for our blessed country and see this war through until it ends." His gaze scraped over the soldiers in front of him, as though daring them to defy him and leave. No one did. She scanned the crowd for Eberhardt, and spotted him sitting near the front, staring up at the man seriously. She could tell even from behind that, if she saw his face, his eyes would be filled with menace and battle-hunger. Other men fought for their homeland and their families. He fought only because he enjoyed the kill.

"We will surrender in only two circumstances," Emilie's superior continued after a drawn-out pause, "Firstly, if our enemies surrender first, and we stand victorious. However, even if they do not, we shall always remain triumphant and walk with our heads held high, because we will know we have done our duty. Or, secondly, if Hit—" She saw him clench his jaw, hesitating before going on, "Der Führer stands down or is killed." Or, as he is more commonly referred to, the psychotic Austrian.

"Do you wish for his death?" All eyes turned to Eberhardt as he leapt from his seat, glaring accusingly at his CO, who looked exasperated with the corporal. "You do not support the Nazi regime! You do not want a pure, superior race. You have no right to be leading us, you American sympathiser!" He pointed up at him.

Emilie rolled her eyes, smirking, and she could tell her CO was struggling to refrain from doing the same. "Do you have nothing better to do than accuse people of being American sympathisers, Eberhardt?" her CO questioned, not looking bothered in the slightest, merely amused, "Honestly, I only said it because, at this point, it is something to take in to consideration. Don't be so quick to jump to conclusions. That's how friendly fire occurs."

She snorted, which came out much louder than she had intended in the silent room. But no one paid her any attention; everyone was focused on the long-awaited stand-off between the corporal and the commanding officer. Quite a difference in rank, but not much difference in ego.

They stayed staring at each other for a few more long, agonizing moments, before Eberhardt finally lowered himself back down into his seat with a last sneer. Her CO straightened, lips twitching slightly at the corners as he held back a laugh. "Dismissed."

Eberhardt was the first to leave his seat, shoving men aside as he ploughed a way to the door, his supporters following closely behind, looking a little less confident than him. He didn't see Emilie and her grin at seeing him so publically ridiculed. Though he seemed undeterred on the exterior, she could tell he was fuming and humiliated just beneath the surface. Yes, it was probably for the best he hadn't noticed her at that moment, even if she was in the mood to blow off some steam and even pick a fight. She still valued not having a broken nose.

"One day, that boy's own cowardice will come back to bite him in the rear," Eberhardt told the men trailing after him, loud enough for everyone to hear and putting extra empathise on the word 'boy', despite the fact he was far younger than his CO. "And I'll be there to laugh." With that, he disappeared through the door.

It took a while for Emilie and Zimmermann to make it to the door, but eventually they were back out in the cold. The men around them had begun to disperse, either back to their quarters or dragging themselves to the lookout posts; the officers still insisted on having sentries, much to everyone's irritation.

"Can you believe him?" Zimmermann murmured, looking around as though he were afraid someone would over-hear and tell Eberhardt. Honestly, they were acting like he was some kind of dictator. Put him, Stalin, Hitler and her mother into one room and the world would probably explode.

Emilie cast him a sidewards glance pointedly, smiling slyly. "Actually, I can," she replied with a light chuckle, "That was Eberhardt on his best behaviour."

He shrugged.

"Are you alright?" she asked, frowning.

Zimmermann nodded unconvincingly. "Yes," he answered, tucking his hands into his pockets to shield them from the biting wind, "I'm still trying to digest the news that all those men have surrendered. We'll have no soldiers left to fight the war at this rate."

"Maybe that's a good thing."

"But then we'll be chosen for all the hard tasks," he pointed out, and she realised he was right. Her cockiness faded. "I don't know about you, Emilie, but I'm tired of fighting. I'm…" He glanced over his shoulder warily, before dropping his voice and continuing, "I'm actually considering running away. I don't know where. Just… Anywhere but here. You understand, right?"

Emilie's eyes widened. She had no right to try and stop him if that's what he wanted, but the thought of losing one of the only friendly faces around here filled her with an unexpected terror. "Well." She struggled to find the words and force her voice to remain steady, "Make sure you don't get caught. The army isn't too kind on deserters."

"Deserter," he repeated the word slowly, as though testing it out. He didn't seem to like how it felt on his tongue, as he grimaced, looking alarmed and defeated. "I never really thought of it that way before. I know, I know, don't look at me like that. But I'm serious about this. I'm sorry, and I'll miss you, a lot, but maybe I'll send word to you once the war is over and it's safe to visit me, right? I'll work to make money until I can go home. Maybe being independent will do me some good."

"You're really going to do it," she murmured, swallowing hard and staring up at him with sorrowful eyes. He returned her gaze, looking a little frightened but determined. She had never seen him like this before. With a sigh, she asked, "When are you planning to go?"

Zimmermann looked almost taken-aback and sad that she hadn't attempted to stop him. "I…" He took a second to collect himself before he looked ready to continue. But he closed his mouth, held up one finger to tell her to wait, and bounded up some steps into a house. She hadn't even realised they had been walking towards his quarters. It only took a moment before he reappeared, only now carrying a small duffel bag. He looked down at it guiltily, averting her eyes. "I can't take much. I'm planning to leave tonight. The sooner the better, that's what I've been thinking."

Emilie looked from him to the bag and back again, finally settling on his face. She blinked tears from her eyes, but he didn't seem to be able to see them in the half-light, and was too hyped-up to have noticed anyway. Soldiers congratulated their comrades when their friends were wounded; in battle, good health was a curse, and illness and wounds a blessing, if it meant only a few days off the line. When a man died, they looked so peaceful, and their friends were happy they were now away from the war. But Emilie could never be like that. She felt every loss like a personal blow. And this was no exception. "And you want me to help you," she guessed.

She saw him blush in the darkness, a dim light over the door of the house they were standing in front of providing their only light. "Actually, I want you to come with me."

Her shock must have been obvious, as he quickly began to back-peddle. "Only if you want to, of course. It's just that… You've looked so exhausted and terrified lately, even if you try to put on a big, strong act. And you may fool the other men, but not me. I know you. And that's why I would be honoured to have you accompany me. Things might get a little lonely, and I would really appreciate some help starting afresh. But only as friends. Don't feel pressured though, Emilie. I—"

"You're babbling," she interrupted, trying to make her voice sound soft and light, but it came out pained. He fell silent. "Zimmermann," she began, sighing, "I would love to, you know I would. But I… Can't. I would never forgive myself if I left these soldiers alone out here without a medic. If I was just any other soldier, then fine. But they _need_ me, even if they think they can take care of themselves. They need me to keep their dumb butts out of trouble, yeah?"

Zimmermann looked ready to protest, but a hard look from Emilie made him dip his head. "Very well," he replied, voice gentle, "Then I wish you all the best, my friend. You will always have a special place in my heart. Can you promise me you won't tell anyone where I've gone until you think I'm far enough away? I won't even stop to sleep, I'll just keep on going. All those night marching exercises back in training will finally be put to use. Can you promise me that, Emilie?"

She was silent for a few moments, her mind whirling. She wanted to try to stop him. She knew she had that power, that he would do anything she asked him to, even if that compromised his own happiness. But she couldn't do that. So, reluctantly, a tear running silently down her cheek, she whispered, "I promise."


	42. 2 Can Keep A Secret If 1 Of Them Is Dead

It seemed as though Zimmermann had planned this well; he knew who was on guard duty, how bright he moon was that night, the blind spots behind buildings that the sentries couldn't see. He had left his heavy rifle back in his quarters, instead opting for a lighter Luger. Emilie was having an internal battle with herself; one half reasoned that she wasn't personally guilty of desertion, that she was simply helping a man that could break down at any time; but that damn devil that sat perched on her shoulder shot that down, retorting that she was betraying her very army. She was sick and tired of constantly feeling guilty, but it had almost become her default setting.

"Duck," Emilie hissed, instinctively dropping to the ground as she saw a lounging guard turn their way.

"Duck?" Zimmermann echoed softly, looking confused, before realisation followed closely by alarm sprang onto his face. "Oh, duck down." He crouched down beside the medic, blinking rapidly a few times, "I thought you were warning me about a bird flying too low or something."

Emilie rolled her eyes with a grumble, waiting for the sentry to turn away once more before running lightly alongside a building, her back brushing it the entire time. She felt like a sleuth in one of those murder mystery films, avoiding capture by the police in the dead of night. She used to take Tobias to see films like that every fortnight, at the pictures, sneaking him into the cinema where children weren't allowed… Oh, what times they had. Emilie had always prayed that she was adopted, not wanting to have the blood of those horrible people that dared to call themselves her parents rushing through her veins, but, after her little brother had been born, all she had wanted was to be his big sister. Stop! Thinking like that makes you weak. Focus. God, in times like these all she wanted was a cup of tea and a… Leave Eugene out of this, fuck, it's not that hard!

Finally, she stopped at the edge of the village, the man behind her almost crashing into her as she stopped so abruptly. She turned to Zimmermann, fighting to speak past the lump that had risen in her throat. "Off you go, then," she ordered in barely more than a whisper, dragging her eyes from him to look around quickly for any shapes concealed in the shadows, "I'll watch your back and make sure no one sees you. Move quickly."

Zimmermann nodded, eyes huge and sad, like a fucking doe. "Thank you for doing this, Emilie," he murmured, sweeping her into a tight embrace. She patted his back a little awkwardly, but still she was glad these moments had not been spent in conflict, like so many of her previous goodbyes had been. She had almost stopped believing that saying farewell could ever go well. And, in a way, this one wasn't. But whatever made him happy, she guessed.

He let her go, sucked in a deep breath, tightened his grip on his duffel bag, and began to walk away quickly. Thankfully, there was no crunchy snow underfoot to make his departure any more conspicuous that it had to be. He turned back a few times to wave goodbye, and each time she would gesture for him to hurry along. At one point, he turned back, not looking where he was going, and tripped in some mud, falling straight onto his ass. Emilie cringed and her hand flew over her mouth, half to conceal her surprise, and half to stifle a loud laugh. But Zimmermann was back on his feet in an instant, rubbing his tail-bone, and was off again. She knew from experience just how much that hurt.

Then, with one last, lingering wave at the top of the hill, Zimmermann turned and disappeared from sight. Emilie let out a breath, dabbing at her eyes. God, how she hoped she had made the right decision in letting him go.


	43. Gott Schütze Uns

Emilie didn't want to stick around for the chaos that was sure to ensue when everyone realised Zimmermann had abandoned them – he was a good soldier, however under-valued. It did take a while for them to start asking questions, however. He was generally quiet, and went unnoticed by the other men for the most part. But when the platoon-leader read out his name on a roll call, and no one answered, suspicions started to grow.

Men would say: "I knew he would never make it to the end of the war", and Emilie would have to bite her tongue to stop herself from snapping something back at them. She would keep her promise. When an officer asked her if she had seen Zimmermann, she had shaken of her, looking up at him with a bored, nonchalant expression. "He said he was going on patrol, that Baum had told him to lead one."

And so the game began. Everyone put the blame on each other; the officer had run over to Baum, who had denied ever doing such a thing, and had suggested he go and ask another officer, that maybe Zimmermann had been mistaken and an orderly had given him the order and said the wrong officer gave him the instructions. Emilie stood back, not drawing attention to herself, smirking to mask her inner concern. Surely they wouldn't go and drag Zimmermann back. But she knew it wasn't that they needed him anymore – he was just one coward in a collapsing army. It was the idea, a matter of pride and dignity, the thought that someone would insult them in such a manner, that he had thrown all the training the Wehrmacht had given him in their faces contemptuously. That was why deserters were shot.

No one understood.

And so, thinking she had done her part and pretended to look for Zimmermann just as much as anyone else, Emilie opted to pay a visit to Dachau. She had lied and told her CO she had friends there she wanted to visit, to which he had commented with a grunt that she "certainly had a lot of friends and family", referring to her previous lie about why she had gone to Eindhoven. Emilie had simply smiled, saluted, and walked with false confidence out of the building where he had set up Company CP.

Now she was walking down the long path that led to Dachau in her civilian clothes – a cream dress and darker shawl -, and, as she grew closer, the stench she had detected a few days earlier grew ever stronger. She wrinkled her nose against the smell, but continued on her way. She no longer needed to use her crutches, but they had become a sort of security blanket for her, and she refused to part with them. Strange, when she had spent so long resenting them.

An elderly couple passed her on the path and she stepped aside to make way for them; they smiled at her in thanks, but there was a sadness in their aged features.

"Fresh bread!" a stout German man holding a loaf of bread called from where he was standing in front of his shop as Emilie entered the village. Emilie felt out of place amongst all these civilians, as though she was no longer one of them. All around her, the German people, young and old, were cleaning up the rubble-covered streets in a quiet efficiency. All along the sidewalks, bricks and furniture that could be re-used were being stacked up, while completely destroyed pieces were sorted out into separate piles. The children still laughed and ran around playing, and Emilie almost envied them, so apart from the troubles of the rest of the world.

There is a lie we are all taught as children. That, as you grow, things begin to make sense. That when you hit adulthood, everything suddenly falls in place. That is a lie. As a child, Emilie was beautifully unaware. Oblivious to the darkness in the world outside the small, safe confines of her own little world. And then she was forced to grow up. And she has had more than her fair share; while others are nurtured by their parents until they must stand by themselves, Emilie was pushed into the real world before she was ready. She was forced to be ready, both by her parents and by the Great Depression, and the echoes of the first world war. She was scarcely permitted a childhood. And she hated that.

Emilie picked her way through the rubble, stopping a few times to help frailer people struggling with their load; they smiled gratefully at her in response.

At that moment, a raised American voice broke through the rest, and Emilie whipped around to see a Yank soldier pointing a gun at the head of the German man she had seen before, the one who had been selling bread. The American had him backed up against a table, and, even though the back of the man was partially blocking her view, she could still see the terror on the face of the German.

"Tell me you didn't smell the stink," the American was snarling; most people outside had fallen quiet, not wanting to get involved in the conflict, and that made it easy to hear what they were saying.

"No, no!" the German pleaded in Deutsch, eyes wide, "I don't know what you are talking about! Please, believe me!"

Another American stopped and turned to his comrade. "Web, let him go," he told him, voice tired, "He says he doesn't know what you mean."

Emilie narrowed her eyes in confusion. Not one of her soldiers had realised that there were Americans in this town. They must have arrived under the cover of darkness, or else the sentries would have spotted them. But what was the man called 'Web' on about? Was he simply putting the blame for the entire war on any German he could find, like most people in the world were doing at the moment (after the leaders of the other countries had told their people not to talk to any German, young or old, Emilie was aware that more than one German had been spat on just for existing. Emilie was suddenly thankful she spoke English) or he was speaking of something else, something that man was personally guilty of.

That was when she saw another American walk past, and her eyes found the patch displayed proudly on his shoulder. The Screaming Eagle. The 101st Airborne. God, they were here, Eugene's regiment and her company's old nemesis. Well, damn. They just couldn't seem to shake those Yanks off their tails. She suddenly felt excitement rise in her chest, a rather inappropriate reaction considering where she was at that moment. But she couldn't help it. This was her chance to see him again. How would he react? How would she react?

Her questions were about to be answered.

"Miss Demont!"

She turned to see the man she had been hoping to see stalking towards her. Her first instinct was to grin, her second was to play it cool, but that was all before he saw the horror and pure rage on Eugene's face. Emilie frowned, studying his eyes as he came to a stop in front of her, hands bawled into fists.

"How could your country do this to those innocent people?" he demanded, his voice as close to a yell as she had ever heard it.

Emilie stared at him in confusion, her stomach dropping. "What are you talking about? What people? Eugene, what's wrong?"

He shook his head, clenching his jaw; she could see the muscles working in his temples as he swallowed hard. When he spoke once more, it was clear he was struggling to keep his voice calm, "That… That camp."

All around them, American soldiers were throwing them confused looks, obviously wondering what their medic was doing abusing a woman with such familiarity. But even their eyes looked empty and haunted. Emilie scrunched up her face, trying to understand what he was on about. "Camp?"

He opened his mouth to say something more, before closing it slowly and instead grabbing her arm, half-leading, half-dragging her towards a forest on the other side of the village.

"I still don't know where you're taking me," she muttered, pulling her arm free of his tight grip roughly though she still continued to walk alongside him briskly.

Eugene didn't reply, simply stared straight ahead with an expression that looked lost, that crease between his eyebrows once more. As they neared the forest, her dread grew and grew. If it had him bothered to this extent, she had a right to be worried.


	44. Emotions Run High

A/N: Wow okay phew writing this concentration camp scene almost made me cry aha. It's kinda hard to work out how Eugene would sound if he yelled, too. But, hey, I tried! Also, I should warn you that my mum's going to India in about two weeks and I'll be staying with my Oma. Since I only get the internet when I go to my mum's work with her on the weekends, you probably won't get a new update for maybe two weeks, but don't worry just yet! Maybe I will have finished this story by then and will be able to upload the chapters. (God, I hope not! I don't want this to end ahahah. A part of my sooooooooooul will go with it.) BUT I have, naughty lil' thing I am, been uploading some of the most recent chapters at school when no one's looking, so that might not be a problem after all.. Oopsie daisy.

As usual, I don't own Band of Brothers, and the characters portrayed here are purely based off of the ones in the TV series, not the real men, whom I idolise. Really. I'm joining the Army Reserves when I start Uni, even if I don't' want to do it as a career. But that's a long way away yet!

Enjoy, if that's possible. And thanks so much to everyone's continued support. I love you all. And a particular shout-out to my lovely newest, self-proclaimed "huge fan", readxme. C':

xx

"Gene," she tried desperately to get through to him, "Eugene, dammit, speak to me! Make me understand!"

But he didn't need to respond. That foul odour was growing stronger as they moved further into the woods, of death and rotting, sickness and black smoke, worse than the hospital back in Bastogne, worse than anything she had ever encountered before. Emilie forced herself to pretend to not be bothered by it for as long as she could, being the stubborn woman she was, but, eventually, it proved too much and she lifted up a hand, pulled her sleeve over it and used it to block the scent from her nose as best she could. But to no avail.

"Seems like one too many dead rats have been left inside the walls," she commented, half to herself, gagging.

Eugene glared at her, and she instantly scolded herself for not remaining silent. "Rats?" he hissed, "Is that what you think of them as?"

Her jaw dropped in confusion – bad idea, as that allowed the horrible air to settle on her tongue, and she spluttered in disgust. Could she say nothing right? "No, I—" She shook her head, trying to look him in the eye but he snapped his gaze back to straight in front of him, "Gene, I have no idea in hell what you are talking about, okay?"

"What you are about to see is the closest thing to Hell I have ever seen," he murmured, voice low and accent thick.

Emilie drew in a shaky breath; for some reason, his words and his very demeanour sent goosebumps running up and down her spine. And not in a good way, for once. She had thought that all her fear had been used up in combat. Apparently, she had been wrong, and she hadn't even seen this supposed 'Hell' yet.

If only it could have stayed that way.

As the trees began to thin out, a clearing became visible up ahead. Emilie strained her eyes to see better; American soldiers were patrolling around the perimeter of… something. What was that? They got closer, and she glanced to the side to see a fresh layer of sorrow and disbelief settle onto Eugene's handsome fact. Her legs suddenly felt like lead, as though she had to put all her effort into just making them move, and her entire being was screaming at her to turn back. But that wasn't who she was. She would see this out. After all, she was curious. And curiosity killed the cat.

They walked closer still, and she noticed Eugene's steps were far less urgent; he also seemed to want to flee, but his will was just as strong as hers. They were a dangerous combination indeed. A twig snapped under her feet, making her jump slightly. The stench was almost over-powering by this point.

That was when she saw it, and her breath caught in her throat in horror. Her footsteps faltered, and Eugene stopped for a moment to wait on her before urging her onwards, a tiny bit more gently this time. Trapped behind tall, chain-link fences with their arms sticking out were people, at least three-quarters starved. As Emilie looked at them, they dropped their gaze and heads like a beaten, mistreated dog would cringe, clearly terrified. She reciprocated their feelings.

Emilie dropped her crutches and rushed into the camp; armed American soldiers stationed at the entrance began to stop her, but an assurance from Eugene settled them and they let her pass. Even if they hadn't, she still would have climbed over that damn fence until her hands her bloody and sliced open. On the front gate were the words 'Arbeit macht frei', which translated as 'labour makes you free'.

The camp was small, but filled with thousands upon thousands of men, all in the same dreadful condition as the first man she had seen; starved, with their bones jutting out like walking skeletons and their stomachs grotesquely bloated, wandering around aimlessly, some carrying and clutching dead bodies that looked like nothing more than skin and bone. Some were partially burned, all had their black and white-striped clothes ripped and ragged, hanging off their shoulders. Corpses in the hundreds littered the place. Some stinking, disgusting huts were smouldering and covered in ash, at least the ones still standing were. A little way away, Emilie spotted huge, rusted red storage containers, and she didn't even want to know what was inside them.

She walked over, dazed, to one of the men. His gums were bleeding, his skin covered in sores and his hair falling out. As she approached, he let out a pitiful sob and stumbled forward, wrapping his stick-like arms around her in a tight hug, seeking comfort wherever he could find it. Emilie suppressed a sob of her own as she hugged him back, rubbing his back in soothing circles. "I've got you," she managed to croak out in German, and he let out a wail into her shoulder. He absolutely reeked and his ribs jutted into her. "Shh, it's okay. I've got you."

"Th-they ran away," the man cried in German into her clothes, his voice muffled, "The horrible men ran away when they h-heard the Americans were coming. B-b-but they burnt the h-houses before they left, with people still in-inside them. We could still hear them screaming!"

Emilie was faintly aware of Eugene standing behind her. She carefully broke the hug, and the man dragged his feet as he walked slowly away, still crying and sobbing prayers.

"The women and children camp is through the woods," Gene informed her in a quiet voice, "There are at least ten in this town alone, who knows how many in the whole of Europe."

"But why are they here?" she cried, too upset and blinded by anger to realise she was speaking in German until she saw Eugene's expression. She took a moment to collect herself, hiding her head behind her arm as she wiped tears from her eyes before they had a chance to fall, before repeating herself in English.

Eugene shook his head, casting a glance around the camp before his gaze settled back on her. "They're Jews," he told her simply, but she didn't miss the look in his eyes. Now he looked at her like you would an enemy, like you would someone guilty.

She scoffed to hide a sob. "I knew nothing about this!" she snapped, gesturing vaguely around her, blue eyes huge and traumatised, "Neither did anyone I know, I swear. It's the Nazis, not us. I told you that when I first met you." Holding up a hand, she looked away and folded her arms across her chest, the horror too much to comprehend. "You know what?" she whispered, this time unable to hold back the tears at the devastation she was witnessing, "I don't have to fucking explain myself to you."

"You're right," he muttered, preparing to walk away, "You don't."

With that, he turned and stalked away, still as lithe on his feet as a cat, despite his heavy army boots, leaving Emilie choking down her own sobs. The smell had become nothing more than something in the background. But the prisoners around her were very much still there.


	45. Broken Dreams And Silent Screams

Emilie spent a long time simply wandering through the camp, scarcely feeling the pain in her ankle. She encountered more dead bodies and huts with what must have been fifty people crammed into them, living in the most awful conditions – if what they were doing could even be called living. The camp was divided into two parts, and she also stumbled across what she identified as gas chambers, buildings for medical experiments and crematoriums, and the mere thought of what the people would have had to endure in there caused her to throw up. Around the entire camp there were various guard towers; some German soldiers had been stupid enough to stay behind, including some SS women soldiers, and Emilie wouldn't have been surprised if they didn't make it out alive. The Americans eyed them with such hatred and malice.

She met more prisoners that told her of other ways they had seen people in the camp killed: just one of the methods was to tie them to railway tracks and run them over with a train, while they screamed the entire time. They said that when more men were tied to the tracks, they lay down in the blood and gore of hundreds of men that had perished gruesomely before them.

"Lieber Gott, mach mich dumm, damit ich night nach Dachau kumm," was a phrase she heard many of the men sing to themselves in scratchy voices as she passed them by. Dear God, make me dumb, that I may not to Dachau come. She heard tales of suicide; of a typhus epidemic in the camp spread from its sub-camps just a few weeks ago, wiping out many prisoners, and how they were briefly evacuated only to be brought back soon after; and of death marches to and from the camp in which many more men and women died. But they weren't just Jewish people in here. They were Catholic priests, communists, and political opposition of Hitler, along with men and women of an array of respectable occupations: teachers, authors, doctors, artists, scientists, and even royalty. The people in there for political reasons wore red tags, while the criminals wore green tags. Sorted out, like cattle awaiting the slaughter house.

Emilie shook her head in dismay, sniffling and wiping tears from her eyes. She had never seen such horrors. But the thing that really got to her was that the prisoners still somehow managed to smile; as the soldiers walked past, they weakly welcomed and saluted their saviours. Emilie suddenly felt selfish. What right had she ever had to complain, to think her life was hard, when here were these people?

At that moment, she realised that the prisoners were all milling in the same direction, back towards the entrance to the camp, brushing past her. She turned to see a few American transport trucks designed to carry troops parked there, with a few soldiers standing in the back, ripping off chunks of huge wheels of cheese and distributing them to the prisoners. It would have been a frenzy, if they hadn't been so malnourished and weak. They clambered over each other, reaching up to get more food, but their movements were painfully slow and clumsy. She saw many of the Americans trying to hide their tears, the ones that weren't able to suppress them being supported by their friends.

She spotted Eugene handing out food, his expression impossible to read, but he didn't notice her. If he did, at least, he made no sign of it. Her heart twisted. This was not how she had imagined seeing him again, not that she had been imagining it…

But that was when it hit her. Emilie spotted an American doctor standing a little way away, frowning as he watched the food being handed out, and jogged over to him, paying no attention to the twinge of pain in her foot. He turned to her as she approached, his frown deepening.

"I'm a nurse," she told him urgently, giving him no time to interrupt her. She pointed at the prisoners, feeling terribly guilty as she considered what she was about to say, to deprive them of. But it had to be done, as much as she hated it. "They can't be eating that. They are three-quarters starved, their bodies won't be able to manage it. If they don't eat it, they'll die. But if they do eat it, they will probably die even quicker. We have to ease them into it, as hard as that may be, and then they might just stand a chance at survival."

The doctor let out a sigh, rubbing his hand over his face. He didn't question what she was doing there. "I know," he replied in a low voice filled with sorrow, "I know, I know. They have to be kept in this camp, so we can monitor their progress and help them. But I'm just dreading being the one to have to tell them that." He looked at the scrawny men in front of him and shook his head. "After all they've been through. It could be a riot."

"It's all part of the job, delivering bad news," Emilie sighed, following his gaze, "But I hardly think they're in any condition to start a riot."

He turned his head to look at her, smiling sadly and giving a small nod. "You're right."

The American turned on his heel and walked away with hunched shoulders; he carried the aura of a defeated man forcing himself onwards. Well, weren't they all like that? He stopped in front of a major, and she watched as he told him the awful news. She couldn't hear them, but by the look on the major's face, she could tell he was thinking exactly the same thing as they had. He called over another man and briefly told him something; the other man looked horrified, glancing over at the prisoners before shaking his head and answering the major.

Reluctantly, the man began to walk towards one of the vehicles, pulling himself up onto it. He began to address the prisoners in a voice choked by emotion, and they shook their heads and wailed and tried to break away as he spoke, telling them they had to stay in the camp. He apologised profusely.

As Emilie watched, rubbing her arms and pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, she made a silent vow to herself: if Adolf Hitler was still alive by the time she was discharged from the army, she would be the one to finally kill him.


	46. I Am A Slave To My Early Grave

Emilie was forced to return to her army that night, where there was no Zimmermann waiting to greet her. She was sure she must have reeked. But she paid no attention to that; her mind was completely occupied by what she had seen in that concentration camp. She had had no idea. She knew for a fact none of the men in her company knew. Or did they? How could she really know? I have to trust them. They're all I have left.

Well, perhaps that wasn't all that filled her thoughts. She was haunted by those damn dark blue eyes. She was sure Eugene hated her now. She would hate her, too; he knew no better, only thought that she was a part of the people that had done that to those innocent men and women. That was how war worked, after all. You were either good, or you were bad. There was no in between.

And she was bad.

"Halt!" a voice in the darkness up ahead yelled, "Who goes there?" She heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked, and imagined her dark figure locked into the sights of a rifle.

She glumly called out the password and continued on her way up the path.

"Sergeant Demont?" the man questioned, stepping in front of her and lowering his weapon, "Why are you returning so late? Where were you?"

"Dachau," she replied simply, side-stepping around him. "I have friends there. Problem? Take it up with the CO."

He didn't protest; no one purposely tried to get called into the CO's office. Her army was well-disciplined, well-groomed, so it was expected that the officers would handle even the smallest infraction seriously.

When Emilie arrived in her quarters, she felt her way to the bed, not even bothering to turn on the lights, and immediately collapsed onto the mattress, rolling onto her back so she was staring up at the ceiling. She didn't even take the time to change into her night clothes or take off her shoes. Drawing her shawl over her, she blinked, images of the camp and the men within it flashing before her eyes and preventing sleep from claiming her. Of Eugene's enraged and untrusting face.

Oh, she led a fun life indeed.


	47. Pick Up The Bones But Leave Souls Alone

"Off to visit friends again?" her CO guessed with a raised eyebrow, looking up at her from where he sat at his desk.

Emilie didn't so much as blink, meeting his gaze calmly. "Yes, sir," she replied, standing at ease despite the fact he hadn't told her she could, "Can I go?"

He was silent for a few moments, and half of her wished he would say no. But, finally, he nodded and gestured for her to leave. She snapped off a salute, thanked him, and began to head towards the door when he called her back. "Oh, and sergeant? The sentry from last night reported that you slipped back here after sunset. Try to get back before then, yes? We wouldn't want to fuel Eberhardt's blasted suspicions."

She dipped her head before running lightly down the stairs. This time, before leaving for Dachau, she quickly returned to her quarters, snatched up her medic bag, and hurried away before anyone saw her and asked why she was taking her bag to visit friends. She had changed into another one of her dresses, of which she had a limited supply, as she hardly ever wore dresses and hadn't been able to exactly carry them easily through the combat zones; this time she wore the blue version of the one she had worn in Eindhoven. It wasn't a particularly sensible thing to wear where she was going, but anything more would raise suspicion, both of her army and the Americans.

When Emilie arrived in Dachau, she was greeted by the sight of countless people, their ages ranging from about fourteen to at least eighty, carrying brooms and shovels towards the direction of the camp. She frowned, allowing herself to be swept up into the throng of people. She fell in beside a woman that looked after fifty years old (though, quite honestly, who knew how old she was. War aged people, both physically and mentally). "Where are we going?" she asked in German, playing the role of the ignorant bystander she had perfected.

The woman looked at her, seeming a little confused by Emilie and her strange accent. "Damned if I know. An American colonel has declared martial law, ordering all able-bodied people to head into the woods to some camp to help clean up. They told us what to expect, but I, personally, don't believe that nonsense. Dramatisation."

"Just you wait," Emilie murmured, half to herself.

"Excuse me?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Don't mind me, miss."

Once they walked closer to the camp and that awful smell, however, the civilians' doubts began to crumble. Some tried desperately to turn back, but American soldiers blocked their path and forced them onwards; the troops did it without any remorse, practically curling their lips up into snarls at the Germans they now saw as personally responsible.

Emilie thought that, if she blended in with the crowd and slipped into the camp, she would be able to slip away and check up on the prisoners without being questioned; after all, Eugene wasn't there this time to assure the guards she was permitted inside. A few metres away, surveying the approaching Germans while chewing on a fat cigar, was Bull, and Emilie pushed her way further into the crowd to avoid being recognised by him. She hadn't even realised she had been fretting about him ever since Nuenen, but now, seeing that he had survived and that her rough job of stitching up his shoulder had paid off, she felt a little relieved.

The group of townspeople reached the camp, and the first thing Emilie saw (she had been trying to keep her eyes off of the prisoners until she absolutely had to) were what must have been thirty bodies, lying on the ground. Now, that wasn't an unusual sight in the concentration camp. But what set them apart from the other charred corpses was the fact that they had red sashes boasting Swastikas on their left arms; Emilie felt ashamed that they wore them on the same arm the medics wore their own sashes, and was suddenly glad she hadn't been wearing hers, lest she be mistaken for a Nazi.

Usually, she cringed at the sight of dead bodies. But now, she rejoiced. There wasn't much to be curious about; either the prisoners had started a riot and killed them, though that seemed doubtful in their state, or the Americans had turned on them. That was the option she was willing to bet money on.

The Nazis deserved everything they got. How could humans inflict that upon their own kind, or on anyone, for that matter? They had no souls. She had once heard a quote, and now could only relate it to Hitler: he who sacrifices his conscience to ambition burns a picture of what could have been to obtain the ashes.

In this case, those ashes belonged to millions of innocent people.


	48. I'm Ready To Let You Get Under My Skin

_A/N: Wow, lots of updates today! Hope you've enjoyed them. C:_

_xx_

Emilie heard many questions that day, but most of them were variations of "what kind of a place is this?" The Americans were more than happy to answer their questions, seeming to coldly revel in the Germans' horror-stricken faces. Before they had even started burying bodies, most people had thrown up at least twice. The bile rose in Emilie's throat, but she managed to swallow it back down.

Things didn't go quite to plan. She attempted to leave the group and start inspecting the prisoners, but an American caught her and steered her back to the civilians, watching her the rest of the time so she couldn't try again. She tried to insist that she was a nurse and that she was only offering her assistance, but he had responded that they had quite enough medics to do that job and that, even if they didn't, they wouldn't accept the help of a Kraut. Emilie had raised her eyebrows and pointed out that she sounded Australian, but the American, the resilient little guy, had just retorted that she was in a German town and then praised her on her ability to fake an Australian accent. She had seemingly met her match, and eventually gave up – something she was not at all used to and founded she detested – throwing her hands in the air.

Fucking great. Now she was to be stuck burying bodies. But perhaps that would help with some good karma and put her guilt to rest. Closure. It wasn't her fault for what had happened here, and she knew that, but still she felt somehow responsible. Self-destructive behaviour was something she exceeded in. If they taught that in schools, she would have aced it. Unlike maths class. Ah, maths… Something she had once been so stressed about, yet now it paled beyond recognition in comparison to everything that had happened since. If only she could go back and tell her ten year-old self that. 'Don't worry, you have a lot worse to look forward to yet!'

Indeed, she was in a cheery mood.

Emilie gingerly picked up a shovel and plunged it into the hard earth, struggling a little as she picked out large stones. She should have been used to it by now, after digging out so many foxholes, but somehow, it seemed even more difficult than usual, perhaps because she didn't really want to be doing it, maybe because her very survival didn't depend on getting this hole dug. But she had no choice. She risked a glance at the stack of corpses to one side and whimpered slightly, hating herself for being so weak. She was doing this for them, those poor souls. The other people digging graves around her were in tears, some fumbling with the bodies and accidentally falling onto them and screaming, shooting backwards only to either knock other people over or crash into more corpses. God had a sick sense of humour, if there even was a God.

Emilie never would have doubted that before, but she didn't know what to believe anymore, and praying to the Lord had gotten her nowhere. And so she turned her back on religion, and she didn't know whether to feel free or lost. God probably couldn't even see them here, in this Hell.

The camp had the worst vibes she had ever felt. She wasn't particularly spiritual, but even she couldn't deny just how many unhappy, lost souls there were sure to be around here. Walls absorbed things: misery, anger, pain. And Dachau had them all.

She had already heard a few people call what had happened to the thirty SS guards "The Dachau Massacre". And a stupid thought passed through her mind: that now the prisoner's souls that would lurk forever within the camp would never be free of those monsters.

They had a long day there, and Emilie's dress was filthy and stinking by the end of it. Her nice clothes never seemed to stay even remotely presentable for long, not that she really cared. At dusk, they were given the order to go back home and return in the morning at first light. They hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of burying bodies; in fact, the Americans had stumbled across a train with its carriages filled to the brim with corpses. They had a long, traumatic experience ahead of them yet.

As she was making her way towards the camp entrance, at the end of the line of civilians who were still vomiting, she detected those familiar footsteps approaching and turned, struggling to see in the darkness, to find Eugene walking quickly towards her, looking exhausted.

Emilie dropped her gaze, grinding her teeth together. She could have sworn her heart skipped a beat. "What do you want?" she demanded bluntly, thinking he was coming over to put the blame on her some more. That was something she didn't need at the moment.

"What are you doin' here, miss Demont?" he asked, stopping in front of her and tucking something back into his medicine bag. His eyes found her own bag she had almost forgotten she was wearing and he frowned slightly. "And why did you bring that?"

She shrugged, still not looking him in the eye. "Thought I'd help," she replied, trying to sound not bothered in the slightest, trying to play the bigger person that wasn't at all affected by getting into a fight with him. "Or do I need permission to do that now? I wasn't looking for you, if that's what you were worried about." She glanced down at her bag, fiddling with the strap and absently picking at some dried blood on it. "I was planning to give you some supplies, in case you needed them, but your lovely friends didn't believe me, so I was stuck digging graves all day. Let me tell you, it was a barrel of laughs and then some." Fuck, shut up. Stop babbling.

Eugene was silent for a moment, studying her face, before he murmured, "I'm sorry. About what I said before. I was upset."

"Don't apologise," she grumbled with a sigh, finally mustering up the courage to raise her head and look him in the eye, "In your position, I would have done the same thing. In fact, I would have been a whole lot worse."

He let out that little laugh she had last heard in Bastogne, that soft humming in the back of his throat, as though it hadn't quite managed to escape his mouth. "I can believe that."

Emilie couldn't fight down a small smile in time. It probably wasn't the most appropriate place, but she couldn't help it. "Look, I'm not exactly the best at talking about my feelings. Usually, it makes me wanna run away, so I'll just say it and get it over and done with." She hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck nervously, "But I… Hated fighting with you. There, I've said it. And I don't want to do it again, not if I can help it. I mean," she gestured from herself to him before continuing, "I don't even know what's going on here. With us."

Gene glanced warily around, clearly checking to see if anyone was watching. Luckily, they were safe under the cool cover of darkness, the still air keeping the stench wafting around the camp. She didn't think she would ever get used to it. He stepped forward, catching one of her petit hands in his and lacing their fingers together. He leaned down and tenderly pressed his lips to hers, his sweet, warm breath washing over her and sending goosebumps running down her neck. Too soon, he drew back, his hand still holding hers. "I think not fighting anymore can be arranged," he promised in a soft voice.

She was at a loss for words for a few seconds, her knees feeling like they were going to buckle beneath her. Usually, she would have hated the feeling. She needed to be in control. She had always hated those women that went to jelly around men. But she found that now, much to her surprise, the feeling was glorious. She had become the woman she had once despised, but that wasn't quite true. Emilie Demont couldn't be pigeon-holed. "I don't think I'm ever going to get used to that," she chuckled, licking her lips.

"Well, you better." Eugene's lips twitched upwards into a slight smile, his words making her shiver with longing. That was when they both seemed to realise that the rest of the civilians had since left, and they broke apart, though she was sure she still had a dumb, goofy grin on her face that she tried to hide with her hand.

And that was how she went against all her morals and kissed a man in a concentration camp.


	49. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

_A/N: Thank you once again to my incredible reviewers, and to everyone who follows this lil' here story. I never thought this would be the reaction when I first started writing it! When I logged on to see that I had gotten 6 new reviews in one day, I almost fell off my chair, I kid you not! :D _

_So, as you know, I always try to include at least one little, background event into the story that actually happened. This chapter's one is about Gene bleaching his hair back in the States; I just got my copy of 'A Company Of Heroes' and OH MY GOD! Ahahah. So, anyway, without further ado! _

_Enjoy, sweetheart. I was scared Emilie might be starting to rub off as a typical Mary Sue, which is the last thing I'm aiming for, (no offense to those who write Mary Sues; they can be fantastic if written right) so I wanted to put the next few chapters in to kind of counter than, you know? _

_xx_

"Allow me to escort you out of the town."

Eugene's offer made her blush, though she attempted to cover that up by smirking and raising her eyebrows sceptically. "What a gentleman you are, Eugene Roe," she teased. They were now standing in the centre of the town, amidst the rubble; all the civilians had since retreated to their homes, along with most of the Americans – the ones that weren't on guard duty, discussing confidential matters or simply getting drunk to take their minds off the concentration camp. Emilie had the half-Cajun to distract her, something she was thankful for. She hardly knew him, but the things he made her feel were ridiculous; if it had happened in a book, she probably wouldn't have believed anything like that could ever possibly happen. Then again, she had never exactly been the Queen of Romance to start with. "But I think I can handle walking alone."

"Are ya sure?" He looked a little disappointed. She was glad she could even detect that; usually, those shutters behind his eyes that all medics seemed to develop sooner or later stopped any indication of emotion from seeping through.

Emilie was silent for a moment, thinking things over, taking her sweet time to simply mock him. Then, finally, she replied, "Fine. Sir, will you please escort a poor, little vulnerable lady out of the town and protect her from the big, bad soldiers?" She batted her eyelashes before chuckling.

They were probably going to the darkest recesses of Hell for joking when just a little way away was the most horrible thing Emilie had ever seen inflicted on other people. But there was no time to take things slow in a war, and by God, she was going to make the most of what little time together they had; who knew what tomorrow could bring? Either one of them could be dead. And she knew Eugene felt the same way. At least she was sure of that much. Not much else made sense, especially why he would want someone like her. It was probably meaningless, just a fling in wartime, a mere blip in time. And yet… No, she didn't dare think of what could be. She was so used to having whatever she loved ripped away from her. _Loved?_ Emilie shoved the thoughts aside, instead opting to concentrate on the now, something she wasn't at all used to after spending so long worrying about the past and future.

Gene smiled and began to walk ahead, stopping for a moment and looking over his shoulder to check she was following. She was. Emilie and Eugene walked side by side. The temperature had plummeted since, winter and spring still battling out whose turn it was to control the weather. She edged a little closer to the man beside her, seeking a little extra warmth and hoping he wouldn't notice. But, when the corners of his lips twitched, she knew he had. Still, he made no move to question her.

"What if someone sees us?" she wondered out loud, looking up at him for a second before dropping her gaze to stare straight ahead. The moonlight turned everything it touched to a brilliant, pale silver. "Isn't there a non-fraternisation policy or something?"

He shrugged. "No one ever listens to rules." Glancing down at her, she saw a small smirk grace his features. "Once, before we were shipped over to Europe, me and some of the other guys decided to pull a prank. We stopped up a tub, filled it with peroxide and bleached our hair. It can't have been very healthy, but ol' Easy's never been real good with rules."

Emilie grinned despite herself. Her hand suddenly had a life of its own and she reached up to tussle his hair playfully, earning her a surprised but amused look. As they made their way through the entrance to the town where an American soldier was standing guard, he made no move to stop them, simply nodded to Gene, who blinked back in response.

They walked in a comfortable silence, though merely being near him was enough to send warm lightning crackling through her body, giving her goosebumps. She had never known herself to be quite so stupid. Emilie finally came to a halt a few hundred metres from the village, repositioning her crutches so she could turn to him. "And this is where we say goodbye," she announced softly, smiling crookedly ever-so-slightly. But when she saw his face was serious, her joking manner faded, looking into his eyes, her breath hitching in her throat.

At that moment, a twig snapped behind them, and they both whipped around, straining to see in the darkness; a thick cloud had just passed over the moon. She felt Gene stiffen beside her. But Emilie could still see the dark outline of the figure before them. Her eyes widened. Her first reaction was anger at being interrupted, but her second was concern. He had seen her with Gene. Usually, she wouldn't give a flying shit about the pain-in-the-ass corporal's opinion, but she could lose everything if he relayed what he had seen back to her CO. Who would her CO believe: her or him?

"Well, well, well," purred Eberhardt, staggering slightly and making her narrow her eyes. "What do we have here?"


	50. Not Tormented Daily, Defeated By You

"I hope you realise how terribly cliché that sounded," Emilie commented in Deutsch, smirking and hoping he didn't detect the waver in her voice. It wasn't in her stubborn nature to allow people to know she was uncomfortable or stressed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Eugene flick a questioning glance at her, and she just extended her fingers to lightly touch his left hand reassuringly, not taking her eyes off of the German soldier in front of her for a second. Cliché or not, his mere presence was unsettling and downright irritating. It certainly ruined the mood. "What are you doing here, Eberhardt?"

Eberhardt shrugged and she saw him grin in the darkness, taking a step forward and stumbled once again. "I could ask you the same question, Demont." His voice was a threatening growl, but she could plainly hear his words were slurred. He hiccupped lightly. What was the highly-respected, distinguished, _stern_ German army coming to?

Emilie frowned. "You're drunk."

"And you're out here with…" He waved his Luger at Eugene, who tensed even more than before. Even if he didn't speak the language, he knew danger when he saw it. "With that enemy soldier. Wait till that weakling CO hears about this. Or maybe I'll just tie up the loose ends myself. That stupid man was never very good at discipline." He shook his head scornfully, muttering under his breath just loud enough for her to hear, "_Dummkopf_."

"Back off," Emilie ordered, edging ever-so-slightly towards the armed man, "Right now. You aren't thinking straight."

He let out a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "No, no, see, you have it all wrong, as per usual, Demont," he told her, blinking rapidly a few times. She could imagine his vision spinning as the alcohol coursed through his veins. "I am thinking _perfectly_ straight! In fact, I was celebrating! Dachau is the best thing that has happened to me so far. Everything is falling into place. _Everything_ is falling into place!"

Emilie swallowed hard, uneasiness tensing her muscles. She didn't dare risk a look back at Eugene, but she could feel he was still there. He didn't speak up, didn't ask what they were saying, he just stood there; she could tell he would interfere, however, if push came to shove. Right now, though, he didn't know what he was up against. "What are you talking about, Eberhardt?" she asked gently. Usually, when talking to the insufferable man, her voice came out cold and aggressive. But she knew how to deal with drunks that potentially posed a threat, and that was to not aggravate them any further by seeming like you wanted to pick a fight.

"I have friends," he continued, and Emilie bit back the sarcastic remark of_ 'really? Who would've thought.' _She remained silent, listening, all the while taking tiny steps forward, attempting to get close enough in order to disarm him. The only thing worse than Eberhardt normally was Eberhardt waving a gun in your face. "Friends in the SS. I receive letters, I hear things. And one of those things was of the labour camps, both down in Dachau," he pointed to the town down the hill, "And all over Europe. But I didn't believe that such a marvellous thing could exist. That is, until now. Now I have proof! Oh, but I only wish I could see it with my own eyes. The good that my regime is doing for the world…"

He was certainly accomplished at making speeches while off his face. Emilie struggled to force down the rage that surged through her at his comment, but her efforts were useless. "You bastard!" she all but screeched, momentarily forgetting he had a loaded gun in his clammy little hands as she closed the distance between them before he had a chance to react, drew back her fist and punched him square in the face.

"_Emilie!_" She hardly heard Eugene's alarmed yell from behind her.

She felt his nose splinter under her knuckles and watched triumphantly as Eberhardt was knocked to the ground, falling onto his back. He lay dazed for a moment, Emilie fighting for breath as the adrenaline raced through her, before slowly lifting his head, blood dripping from his nose in a steady stream. His hand tightly gripping the gun followed, lining her into his sights clumsily, his arm swaying from side to side.

That gave her just enough time to fling herself to the ground. Eberhardt fired into the empty space where she had been standing just mere heartbeats ago; and, since her heart was beating at the speed of an army drummer, that really wasn't that long ago. "I'll kill you for that!" he gurgled, wiping blood from his face. She was sure he was serious.

But, before either of them could react, Gene was suddenly standing over Eberhardt and kicking the gun from his hand. The German glared up at him with an expression of pure hatred and confusion, but Eugene met his gaze unflinchingly. "You're next if you don't make yourself scarce," Eberhardt spat, but Eugene held his ground; he was even braver than Emilie had ever given him credit for. Even if he didn't understand what Eberhardt was saying, he was still willing to stay there. Whether it was to protect Emilie or get his revenge for the camp on any German he could find, she wasn't sure.

"Don't drag him into this," Emilie hissed, scrambling to her feet, wincing as she put pressure on her injured foot. So much for remaining calm. "Don't you _fucking_ drag him into this."

"Then tell your guard dog to stand down! I don't do what you tell me, Demont. Useless medics."

With that, Eberhardt spun around on his back and kicked Eugene's feet out from under him with all the force of the with boar he was named after. Now he was just doing it to spite her. Gene's eyes sparked with fear as he landed on the hard earth with a thud, but, before Eberhardt could do any more damage, he was on his feet once more, staring down at the other soldier.

But Eberhardt was a terrible drunk and, if anything, the man was persistent. He pulled his small blade from his boots and looked ready to attack Gene, who looked just as prepared to take Eberhardt down with him.

Almost forgetting to breathe, Emilie fumbled around on the grass for the Luger Gene had kicked from the other man's hands. _Come on, come on,_ she thought desperately to herself, mouth partially open as she sucked in shallow, shaky breaths. Her fingertips connected with something cool and hard. _Yes!_ Drawing herself up onto her knees, she grabbed the small, black gun and, barely having time to aim, fired. _Please don't jam, you stupid, fucking thing._

_Bang!_

The bullet whizzed through the air and lodged itself in Eberhardt's stomach. His eyes widened in surprise, looking down at the wound in his flesh that was already gushing blood. He looked over at Emilie, his glare as malicious as ever, despite the fact he had a gaping hole in his back. Snarling, he attempted to speak but the words got lost in the back of his throat as blood bubbled from his lips, dripping down his cheeks. With one last cry of agony and hatred, Eberhardt collapsed back against the frost-sprinkled grass, his head lolling to the side as blood pooled around him. His glassy eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly into the distance.

And just like that, it was over.


	51. Goodbye To Old Foes

_A/N: Hiya, guys! Lots and lots of updates today, since I haven't had the internet for many days and I'm currently uploading these at school. But it should keep you amused until I can upload next. So, the fun, historical fact in today's chapter (I feel like someone on Playschool ahahah) is that, when the real Doc Roe came home from the war, he brought back a German Luger as a souvenir. It had a swastika on it. His mother took one look at it before telling him, "We're not having any of that in the house", and threw it in the bayou. I'm once again twisting some fiction into fact and saying that Luger was the one that killed Eberhardt. _

_No offense intended, to anyone, not to the veterans of either side or their families._

_By the way, I've signed up for the Australian Air force Cadets before I can join the Army Reserves. A little nervous, but most of all excited. I also got all my 101__st__ memorabilia I ordered, including an authentic Screaming Eagle patch from one of the men's uniforms, photographs signed by the veterans, and so on. Currahee, baby! :D_

_Enjoy, and review if you like! You guys never cease to amaze me. 3_

_xx_

Emilie stared in shock at the man lying dead before her, then slowly looked down at the gun she was still holding in her hands. She let it drop to the ground, not thinking that probably wasn't a wise thing to do with a loaded gun. Some of Eberhardt's blood was plastered on her knuckles from where she had punched him. The familiar metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils, warm and fresh, and made her nauseous.

She never wanted this. Well, to be truthful, she would be lying if she said she had never dreamed of this moment, but she never thought she would actually act on it. She thought she would be glad to finally be free of him, but now she realised it was simply more blood on her hands. She had had to make a quick decision, one that meant the difference between life and death, and now she couldn't help wondering if she had made the right one. Surely there could have been another way. She hated him with a fiery passion, for sure, but death was so… Permanent, so haunting.

Desperately, she attempted to wipe the blood off of her knuckles on the grass shimmering with dew, but it only smeared the dark crimson further, imbedded it deeper into her pale, freckled skin. She began muttering to herself in Deutsch, the words constricted by tears she refused to shed, becoming more and more high-pitched as she choked on them, still trying to wipe her hands.

She heard the grass flatten under Eugene's boots as he walked over and crouched down beside Emilie, enveloping her smaller, bloody hands in his to keep them still; they were now scratched up and even more bloody as the small rocks in the ground had torn at her skin. Usually, she would have ripped herself free of him, telling herself she couldn't let herself be seen in that state, that she needed to appear strong and resilient and like it didn't weigh on her soul. But she was so tired, so exhausted with her act. She needed someone that she didn't have to lie to and hide her true self from constantly.

And right now, Gene was the best option she had.

Emilie leaned in to his touch, tucking her head under his chin. She continued to stare at Eberhardt's motionless body, not allowing herself to look away even when Gene attempted to turn her head away lightly with his hand. She could feel his heart racing, his hands shaking ever-so-slightly against her own however hard he tried to remain calm. "I'm a medic," she breathed into his jacket, soft voice laced with bitterness and loathing, directed only at herself, "I'm supposed to help people, not be the one doing the shooting." She broke off into German curses.

Letting out a sigh, he wrapped one of his arms around her shoulders while his other hand still gently held her own, his thumb making soothing circles on her wrists. "If you hadn't done what you did," he told her, words partially muffled as his cheek was resting on the top of her head, "Then one or both of us would be dead. I think you were pretty brave, miss Demont."

Though she understood why he called people only ever by their last names (she did the same), the name he had given her stung a little now. She used to find it adorable, enjoying the way he spoke her full name in his accent. But now she couldn't help wondering if he couldn't afford to get attached to her, or if he didn't want to. It shouldn't have mattered to her, anyway. They weren't married. They were in a goddamn war, for Christ's sake.

"All the soldiers are brave," she retorted, "But that doesn't mean that what they do isn't murder. I'm not judging them, Gene, but Eberhardt is the first man I've ever… _Shot._ And I just hope like Hell he'll be the last." She wasn't even thinking about what she was saying. She let her guard down around Roe, and that could end up being a problem down the track. But right now, she didn't care. She had so much shit piled inside her head that she hadn't even told her confessor, but there was something about Eugene that she felt she could trust. Now, however, wasn't the time to get into that.

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Eugene insisted.

Emilie rolled her eyes, which were wet and red from unshed tears that were piling up. "Don't act like this doesn't bother you."

"I never said it didn't."

There was silent for a few minutes, the only sound their breathing which had almost synchronised and the breeze that rustled the grass. She had a feeling that, if she had wanted to stay there the entire night, Eugene would have stayed with her, even if that caused hassles with his company. But she couldn't do that. So, sucking in a deep breath, she rose to her feet, muscles aching. Eugene let go of her hands and followed her, rearranging his medic bag, and watching her with concerned eyes.

"How the bloody hell am I going to explain this?" she wondered out loud, wiping away tears as she broke away from Gene and crouched down beside Eberhardt. Leaning forward, her hand hovered uncertainly over his sightless eyes before finally drawing down his eyelids. She bit back the words 'go to Hell'. She wasn't that heartless.

The other medic remained silent; clearly, he had no ideas. Or perhaps he simply thought they weren't any good. At that point, she would have gone with anything. Even at that moment, ideas and possible explanations were spinning through her mind that she was struggling to keep clear from thoughts of grief and regret. Finally, she reluctantly decided what to do. It probably wasn't the most sensible plan, but, either way, she would be the prime suspect. Besides, she had nothing left to lose.

She collected the Luger and stood up once again, walking over to Gene. Emilie dangled the gun in front of him by the handle before slipping it into his hands. "Want a souvenir?" she asked bluntly, "Here, have one with a story behind it. I don't need the thing."

He looked down at it uncertainly, and, as she saw something pass over his face, he recognised the distant look and knew he was remembering something traumatic that had happened, most likely involving a Luger; at first, he was unwilling to take it, but it was plain to see that he soon came to realise it was something rare he could take home from the war. It would also be worth a bit in a few years.

Tucking it into his pocket, Eugene raised his eyes to look at her. "Are you sure you're gonna be okay? I don't have to go back just yet if you don't want."

Emilie forced a weary smile, shaking her head. "I'll be just peachy," she promised, rubbing her palms together for warmth, "Now get out'a here. Scat." She locked eyes with him for a moment before looking down, face now deathly serious, voice guarded and hard. "And I'll understand if you never want to see me again. This wasn't exactly a perfect night." Just saying that made her heart squeeze painfully, which confused her greatly still.

Not giving anything away on his face, Eugene walked forward and enveloped her tightly in his arms. It was like her own, private safe haven, a warm place where the horrors of the outside world couldn't reach. Where time ceased to exist. The tears she had fought so hard to keep to herself threatened to reappear and finally fall and her body shook in the effort to keep them hidden. That only made his arms tighten around her and she pressed closer to his body, breathing in his comforting smell.

He could have walked away and abandoned her. Not many liked being in that deep, involved in a murder and such, even if it would have been justified and not really important under the cover of war, whereas in civilian life it was a mortal crime. She wouldn't have blamed him. But he didn't. Maybe he still would; she was so used to not trusting people and constantly expecting them to betray her and do the worst. But he seemed somehow different.

They were now well and truly in this together.


	52. Walking On Thin Ice

Emilie stood at attention in front of her CO. He was seated behind his desk while Ehrlichmann spoke to him urgently, bending down in order to talk directly into his ear and stop her from hearing as much as possible. It irritated her; it wasn't exactly like what he was saying was a huge secret. Ehrlichmann's eyes flicked to her every so often, as did her CO's. She met their gaze calmly, while on the inside she was close to panic.

How had she been so stupid? Was Eugene really worth losing her duty as medic over?

She hadn't gotten any sleep so far that night. Straight after Eugene had left (he had offered to help her, but she had refused, reasoning that he couldn't exactly waltz in behind enemy lines; to that, he had reminded her that, as paratroopers, that was exactly what they did, and for once she hadn't had a witty retort prepared for that), she had barely managed to drag Eberhardt's body back to the village. It was strenuous, despite the fact she was quite strong. Once upon a time, she would have asked Zimmermann to help. He would have understood. But that was no longer an option.

Once inside the town, she had gone straight to the doctor, Ehrlichmann, knocking on his door relentlessly until he woke up and answered. That hadn't made her the most popular person, as a few men had yelled at her to shut up, to which she had yelled back at them even louder to mind their own business. They had known that tone of voice, and hadn't argued any further, disappearing back into the rooms they had claimed for themselves and their friends. She had hidden Eberhardt's body in an alleyway, and, luckily, it had been too dark for any curious men that were still up to spot.

Ehrlichmann had followed her down in his white bed shirt and blue pyjama pants, still wiping sleep from his eyes. But he had been instantly awake as Emilie had presented him with the body of the man that had tormented her for so long. She had explained what had happened and he had paced back and forth for a few minutes rubbing his face while muttering to himself. Finally, he had told her to follow him and had rushed to the CO's quarters. Emilie hadn't protested. She just wanted to get this over and done with. It was far better to tell the truth than to come up with some extravagant lie that would eventually unravel and leave her dead or in the stockade. Well, at least she hoped telling the truth was for the best. Because if things didn't go as she planned, she would be royally screwed.

And that was how she had ended up here, at three o'clock in the morning, feeling like a murderer on trial before a judge. Her CO waved Ehrlichmann away, who took a few steps back to stand behind the other man. Heaving a sigh, her CO turned to her, lacing his fingers together.

"Ehrlichmann has told me what you told him," the commanding officer explained in a low rumble, clearly trying to keep himself together, "And he has examined the body enough to know that Eberhardt was killed by a single bullet, which matches your story. I'm going to give you the chance to explain what happened in your own words, just in case Ehrlichmann got anything wrong." There was a look in his eye that made Emilie think he wanted Ehrlichmann to be wrong, that perhaps she hadn't done it. _Well, sorry to burst your bubble, sir._

Emilie shrugged, making the officer narrow his eyes. "What he said was correct, sir," she replied simply, "Eberhardt attacked me and I defended myself. It wasn't cold-blooded murder, just plain, ol' self-defence, like we were taught in training." Her eyebrows quirked for a second pointedly, before relaxing once more. How she hoped her tough, care-free charade was working.

"And you, a much smaller female, managed to defeat a stronger, bigger male?" He asked sceptically, though it was more of a doubtful comment than a real question. "Are you sure you didn't have help?"

She snorted, tensing but not berating him for doubting her skills like she usually would have. "Like I said, _sir_, he was drunk and has never exactly been the brightest tool in the shed. His arrogance was his downfall. I managed to unarm him and used his Luger to… End it." She barely managed to suppress a shiver at the memory. She sounded like a fucking mercenary or something. Those blasted tears began to sting her eyes once more, but she blinked them away.

Her CO was silent for a few moments, resting his chin on his hands, eyes closed as he thought things through. When he opened them once more, she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of sorrow pass over his face. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared and she couldn't be sure. "We will tell the soldiers an American shot him."

Emilie's eyes flashed, and she hoped they didn't notice. "Can't we just tell them he accidentally shot himself or something?" she argued, taking a small step forward so she could grip the side of his desk. He stood his ground. "It happens, sir. Why should we make them hate the Americans any more than they already do for something they did not do, when the war is so close to being over? It will just create more unnecessary pain and anguish and a need for vengeance." She had no clue why she was even defending the bastards. Well, that wasn't entirely true. She had some idea.

Her CO stood up from behind his desk, the chair scraping against the polished floorboards as he did so. He now loomed over her, leaning over his desk. She swallowed uneasily, but made no move to retreat. "You are walking on thin ice, Demont," he growled in a low, menacing voice, "Do not fall through, or you will not be able to get back up. The Americans are our enemies. Perhaps once the war is over, our countries will be friends again, but, until that day, we will continue to treat them as our foes. And just because the war may be on its last legs, that does not mean we can start getting sloppy. Now I am tired, and this is the last I shall hear of it. An American shot Eberhardt, and it would be best for both of you," His gaze swept back to Ehrlichmann, who stiffened, "If you taught yourself to believe that. Do I make myself clear?"

She held his gaze unflinchingly, glaring up at him with her jaw set and fists clenched so hard her knuckles turned a ghostly white. But, finally, lest she wanted to stay frozen there the whole night, she was forced to step back and dip her head. Her CO looked rather pleased that he had finally gotten Emilie Demont to acknowledge he was in charge and calling the shots. It had only taken two and a half years. "Fine," she replied evenly with just a hint of a snarl. It took everything in her to not sneer at him. "Have it your way, and see how well it turns out." With that, she turned on her heel and stalked towards the door. Before she disappeared through it, she placed one hand on the doorframe and called back in an icy voice, not looking at them, "And don't pretend I didn't just do you a favour. He may have been a good soldier, but sooner or later he would have brought everything crashing down around our heads."

She had never felt quite as sick with herself as she did at that moment. What kind of a person said that? She wasn't who she used to be. She didn't even recognise herself anymore, like an outsider looking in. She had vowed to never become like this, so detached.

She had become everything that she despised about soldiers.


	53. Victory Comes With A Price

Her CO held a meeting that morning to tell everyone what had happened to Eberhardt – or, at least, their version of what had happened. Emilie didn't attend. She was tired of all the lies, of keeping secrets from the men that she felt closer to than anyone. They had become almost an entity over the years, able to do almost anything in unison, willing to give their lives to save their new brothers and best friends without a second thought. She had once, though she had refused to admit it as she had hated the army and everything it stood for, felt like she had found her true home. At least, that was how things used to be. Now she felt distant, disconnected, like she was barracking for the wrong side: the Yanks.

And it was all because of that stupid, gorgeous medic from Louisiana.

She had seen Ehrlichmann follow the crowd into the meeting hall, and their eyes had locked for a split second, causing other men to crash into his back and yelp at him when he stopped.

Even from this distance now, she could hear the shocked murmurings from inside and knew they had just heard the news about the corporal. Her grip on the twig she was fiddling with tightened, and she unintentionally snapped it in half. The sound reminded her of when Eberhardt had snuck up on Eugene and her and she sucked in a deep breath, pushing the thought out of her mind.

All of a sudden, the door to the meeting hall swung open and soldiers streamed out of it; some looked dazed and confused, their steps heavy, while others practically skipped around each other. Emilie frowned. They couldn't be celebrating over Eberhardt's death. If they were, she would quickly knock some sense and manners into them.

But, before she even had a chance to ask, Kuhn raced over to her, his eyes looking brighter than she had ever seen them; even in training, he had been drafted, and he had always looked a little sad, his eyes a bit too heavy. "Hitler's dead!" he blurted out, skidding to a halt in front of where she was sitting, "He and his wife killed themselves when the Russians were about to storm their bunker. They even killed their dog, Blondie! Shame, I saw pictures of him walking the German Shepherd outside the bunker. Beautiful dog. And he and Eva Braun just got married, too. Or should I call her Eva Hitler? I don't even care. This means the war could very well be over, Emilie! We'll have to surrender, but still, World War Two is finally over! After six years, I'll be able to see my family again." He was well and truly rambling.

Emilie's frown deepened for a second but disappeared as her eyes widened in realisation. Hitler was dead. Adolf fucking Hitler was dead, and without their _Führer_, the Nazis wouldn't be able to stand on their own. "That's great news!" she exclaimed, grinning. She never would have thought she would see the day when so many people rejoiced at someone's death.

"Isn't it?" He shook his head, still smiling. "I can't believe it." Only when his smile eventually faded did he look up, more serious now. "Did you hear about Eberhardt? I can't say I'm surprised. He died as he lived: fighting."

"Yeah," she averted her eyes, guilt tugging at her heart, "Yeah, it's a shame." Desperate to change the subject, she smiled once more, "But, hey, Hitler's dead!"

Kuhn nodded enthusiastically. She had never seen him like this. It was a nice change. "I could dance right now."

Emilie smirked. "So do it."

He blushed, raising his eyebrows. "I think your eyes would probably explode. My dancing is not a pleasant sight."

Though she laughed on the outside, and she was truly rejoicing that Hitler was dead, that part was true, she couldn't help feeling a nagging… _Something_ on the inside. When she realised it was because she didn't want to leave the army, she could have punched herself. Of course she wanted to leave! She hated it here, hated this goddamn war with the fiery passion of a thousand white-hot suns. And yet, she couldn't quite convince herself. No one back in the civilian world could possibly understand what they had gone through. Endured in order to lose. She knew they were fighting for their motherland, not in favour of oppression. But other people couldn't understand that.

She was a soldier now.


	54. The Final Stand

"We are resorting to guerrilla warfare."

Everyone was instantly all-ears and on high-alert at their CO's announcement.

Someone at the front of the room called out, "But you said that, if Hitler died, we would surrender and end the war." There were scattered murmurs of agreement.

He met their protests calmly, standing straight with his hands behind his back. "Think of it in a poetic sense," he replied; some of the men snickered. They were soldiers, after all, and most hadn't exactly loved poetry in school. "One last stand. I'll admit, as much as it pains me to say it, we have lost this wretched war and there is no regaining the high ground, so to speak." His gaze swept over the soldiers in his care, "But we can at least go out fighting, in a blaze of glory."

Emilie had to say something, make her voice heard. She stood up, raising her voice over the racket. "Isn't this just risking more lives unnecessarily?" It was more of a statement than a question, and everyone fell silent, turning to look at the defiant medic who was once again in full uniform. "If we surrender, we will, if they can be trusted, be given safe passage and merely stay in a POW camp until we are allowed to return home. It doesn't sound entirely glamorous, granted, but—"

"Surrendering is for cowards," her CO cut her off, eyes clearly willing her to sit back down and remain silent, so as not to plant seeds of doubt in the men's minds.

"I understand that!" she snapped, picking her way through the crowd of seated German soldiers. They were all watching her intently. Emilie stopped right in front of her ranking officer, glare daring him to order her back to her seat. "But, as medic, I find it my duty to point out the huge, gaping flaw in your plan that could endanger, oh, I don't know," She pretended to think about it for a second, "Maybe the whole company?"

He shook his head, turning away from her. "This entire war has endangered the lives of the entire company, sergeant Demont."

Emilie darted in front of him, not letting him get rid of her that easily. "That was when we _needed_ to fight, when we _needed_ to die," she insisted, standing up on her tip-toes as though that would make it easier to get through to him, "Now we would be doing our home a favour if we surrendered and stopped the fighting once and for all." She heard some men behind her agreeing. "Perhaps you're scared to let go of the power, hm?"

"Nonsense," he spat, eyes wild for a moment before he let out a sigh and collected himself, pressing his palms together in what looked like an effort to find calmness. He continued more steadily. At least she now knew how to hit a nerve with him. "Sergeant, this will be the final time that I politely ask you to return to your seat." She opened her mouth to interrupt, but he held up a finger to silence her. "And don't be fooled by the kindness of my words. This is not a request."

She had so much more to say. This was a huge mistake, a monstrous, gargantuan fuck-up. But she knew there was nothing she could possibly say that could ever change his mind; besides, her place in the army after killing Eberhardt was still tentative at best. Either way, she would regret it, but it was best to have a front-row seat when everything went to shit, where she could at least attempt to help. So, like a snake recoiling after having prepared to strike, Emilie slowly backed away from him and reluctantly strode back down the aisle. She no longer had to wear her crutches, and so had forced herself to part with them.

Ordinarily, she would have left the meeting there and then, but she needed to know what was happening, so sunk back into her seat at the back of the room, sitting up as straight as she could manage, lips pursed, watching her CO as he explained what was going to happen to a less than willing audience.


	55. Here We Talked About Tomorrow

This was the plan: travel to Berchtesgaden, where every conquering army was sure to go to loot and where the German forces would surely surrender, hook up with whatever German soldiers were still willing to fight, blow a few bridges to slow the Americans advance and shoot down as many as they could before either surrendering or being killed themselves. In short, it was a suicide mission, and that caused much uproar. There was no reason for them to die now.

Her CO told them he was getting his orders from above, reading from a script, that he wanted nothing more than to surrender peacefully and have this war over with. Emilie could tell he was speaking the truth, but that didn't make it any better. She tried to argue again, and she wasn't the only one, but it was no use. They were heading to Berchtesgaden. And that was that.

They left under the cover of darkness; they had since learned of the Americans in Dachau, and had timed their departure so there would be only a few hours between them, but they would go by a different road. Travelling on horse-drawn transport wasn't the most comfortable way, but it was the only thing they had access to.

Emilie sat on the hay, her legs dangling over the edge of the large cart. They were the last one in the long line of soldiers, exposed, but most men were just relieved they didn't have to march the entire way. The soldiers didn't sing as they usually would have; in fact, now they were fast asleep all around her. The only sound was the creaking of the wooden wheels, their snores, and the occasional snorting of the mules. She hated exploiting animals, but there was nothing she could say against it.

The cart rocked back and forth beneath her and she had to hold onto the wooden boards in order to not fall off into the mud. Kuhn was sound asleep beside her, clutching his rifle (after all, they were taught to treat their weapons like wives), his head lolling to the side and hanging dangerously close to the edge. When the top of his head finally did fall over, he started awake, spluttering and rubbing the back of his neck, but was back asleep before she could get a word in.

Ehrlichmann hadn't been permitted to travel in the same cart as Emilie, in case they were ambushed. Two soldiers with medical training weren't allowed to stay together for long.

Emilie looked out over the vast, open moor, eyelids drooping. The breeze was cool, gently lapping at her skin and hair. The moon was beautiful, for once no clouds hanging in the sky and obscuring the stars. They were like fireflies, somehow calming. She had always loved the night time; back at home, when she was little, she would be sent to bed while the sun was still up so her mother wouldn't have to be bothered by her anymore, and Emilie would wait until the moon hung in the sky to light a candle, slip under the covers and read until she could stay awake no longer. It had been a nice tradition, until her mother had discovered what she was doing and taken all candles out of her room, checking in on her before she went to sleep.

As soon as she started to reminisce about Tobias, she shoved the thought away. Pining now would do no good; nothing could bring him back, no matter how hard she wished for it. She had learned a long time ago that prayers were never answered, or at least not without a cost. Reaching down into her pocket, her fingers brushed the small pendant and blue bird she always carried with her and her chin quivered. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved to see that everyone was still sleeping soundly, and hadn't witnessed her momentary exhibition of weakness.

For a second, she considered throwing the necklace and small, soft toy out onto the dark moor, so they wouldn't serve as a constant reminder of all she had lost. But she wasn't that strong. She predicted that, even as an old lady, she would have them tucked away safely in her bedside cabinet. How pathetic.

Leaning back onto the prickly hay, she used her jacket as a makeshift pillow and gazed up at the stars far above her. She remembered the Southern Cross back in Australia, and the Big Dipper. Now, looking up, she could see the Milky Way, and it felt to her as though they were travelling down it, the pale cluster of stars forming a path that would lead them to their destiny. This could be the last time any of them ever saw the stars.


	56. But Tomorrow Never Came

They arrived at their destination about a day later, before the Americans or any other Allied Forces.

Once there, they were met by a few _SS_ fanatics and integrated into them. The _SS_ men made her skin crawl, turning their noses up at the other, ordinary soldiers and keeping a keen eye on Emilie, possibly the only woman any of them had seen in quite a while. But, at that particular moment, she carried an aura that said 'don't try anything unless you want a black eye' and they more-or-less let her be. Her CO took control of the entire group, as he was the highest ranking officer there, and, surprisingly, no one from the _SS_ complained.

"Quite a place to die, hm?" Kuhn commented dryly as he jumped off of the cart. He turned to Emilie and offered her a hand as she prepared to follow him down, but she waved him away and dropped lightly onto the ground. She had never been particularly great at accepting help, however minor.

Looking around, she saw that they were ensconced by tall, sheer cliffs that formed the base of the Swiss Alps, towering above them like witnesses to their final stand. They also made escape pretty much out of the question; they were cornered. This was a one-way ticket. She felt her heart plummet. As much as she was hating life and herself at the moment, she wasn't sure she wanted to die just yet, and especially not in such a pointless exercise. The sweet relief of death was tempting, but she needed to stay with her men. If they all perished, then she might be open to reconsideration.

A few hundred metres in front of them was a deep ravine, the only way to cross it a stone bridge. She knew what that meant.

"We are going to detonate that bridge," her CO's voice boomed, as though reading her mind. He marched in front of the soldiers, who looked tired and like they just wanted to go home. "Auschwitz, Underlingk, plant the explosives while the rest of us cross over to the other side and set up our defences."

The two soldiers whose names had been called exchanged a glance before beginning to trudge over to the bridge, carrying the explosives. "Hurry up, we haven't got all day," the commanding officer barked at them, and they hurried along, "And we do _not_ want to be caught off guard."

"We're screwed anyway," Emilie muttered under her breath in English, ever the pessimist.

Kuhn glanced at her; he couldn't understand what she had just said, but she suspected that he caught the general gist of it by the tone of her voice.

"Well," her CO continued when no one else moved, "Don't just stand around here. _Move!_"

She had learned that the more stressed he got, the snappier and more impatient he became. She almost pitied him, being the one blamed for everything when he clearly wasn't too keen on what he was doing, either. Oh, she was becoming rather the softie in her ancient age of 21. That reminded her. Her birthday was fast approaching, on the 23rd of May. It was currently April. She had always hated celebrating her birthday, and so had, as soon as her brother could walk, instead opted to take Tobias and run away into the woods for the day to avoid her parents, and they would spend the day alone, simply exploring and playing various games and enjoying a picnic of the fruit they nicked from trees in people's gardens that overlooked the woods. That had been the best gift.

The soldiers quickly made their way over to the bridge and crossed; a few looked over the edge warily, sticking close to their friends to avoid being accidentally pushed over. Emilie had never been a big fan of heights and crossed hurriedly, fearful the bridge should collapse under their collective weight. Here was the brave medic, who had risked her life countless times running through the crossfire, afraid of heights. It was ironic.

As soon as they were on the south side of the ravine and a sensible distance from the bridge, Auschwitz and Underlingk lit the bombs, which had a thirty second time delay, and bolted away, kicking up dust in their mad sprint to get out of the blast zone. Mere seconds after they re-joined their comrades, the bridge exploded, a great fireball engulfing it. Rubble rained down, and just a few metres from Emilie, a large shard of stone landed heavily and she jumped back, crashing into the soldiers behind her. Billowing black smoke was sent up into the air, along with clouds of grit that blocked their view of the northern side.

Immediately the men began setting up their mortars and automatic weapons, wasting no time. The enemy could arrive at any minute, and they were going to be prepared.


	57. Old Enemies, New Friends

They were right to be on their guard.

As the smoke began to clear, figures appeared where they had been standing not half an hour ago. The sentry was the first to spot them, and called a warning to the Germans from where had had been positioned on a large rock that jutted out from the cliff, where visibility was more or less good. They clearly hadn't heard the Allies approach in their frantic preparations.

But with her sharp vision, Emilie could see that it wasn't just Americans standing there, but also the French._ Get your game faces on, boys,_ she thought silently, looking around at the men surrounding her. _Make this one count._

That was when she spotted a taller, slim man jumping out of a truck on the American side of the ravine, and the white sash on his left arm. "_Wait!_" she yelled at the men behind her, not thinking what she was doing, but they had already opened fire. She saw Eugene take cover just as someone behind her secured her arms and dragged her, kicking, to the back of the MLR. "Get off me!" she hissed, shoving him away and peering over the heads of the soldiers. No sign of Gene. But was that a good or bad thing? She wasn't sure.

"We can't have our only medic getting wounded," Ehrlichmann murmured gently in her ear, and she reluctantly settled down, though she continued to pace back and forth behind the men, picking at her fingers and chewing at her thumb nail until it was no more than a stump. The surgeon stood behind her with his hands behind his back, watching her through narrowed, concerned eyes. At least no one was getting wounded.

In truth, the Allies looked rather unimpressed with their display of fire-power. Perhaps the wind wasn't just right, or maybe they had made a grave error and put them too far back, because the mortar rounds hit directly in front of the Americans, but never within their ranks, which was good news for Emilie but terrible for the rest of the soldiers. When the first few mortars fired, the French and Americans scattered instinctively, but when they learned they were doing no damage, they simply watched them contemptuously. They found it amusing at first, but soon it grew into an irritation.

"So much for going out in a blaze of glory," Emilie muttered to Ehrlichmann when she finally stopped pacing and went to stand beside him. He shook his head in disbelief in response. A few of the French returned fire, but it wasn't really heartfelt and did about as much damage as the German mortars. She was just glad that the Germans didn't follow the Japanese tradition of suiciding if you lost a battle because it was too disgraceful to return home a failure. She had seen a few men take their own lives in her time in the army, and the mere thought froze her heart.

Eventually, they were forced to surrender; her CO gave the order with a despaired sigh, though he looked faintly relieved, and all the soldiers rose to their feet with their hands held over their head. She could hear the American's laughter even from that distance and gritted her teeth. They were not something to be mocked.

At that moment, she heard her name being called and frowned, looking around. "Demont, get over here!" the order came again, and she recognised her CO's voice. She glanced back at Ehrlichmann, who shrugged. Clearing her throat, Emilie walked over to her commanding officer, who was standing with a few of the _SS_ men, along with a man from her company.

"Demont," her CO greeted her, frowning disapprovingly, subtly so none of the _SS_ would notice, "You took your time. Have you become deaf over night?"

Emilie smiled sweetly. "Sorry, sir. I thought your voice was just an irritating sound in my head."

One of the _SS_ soldiers smirked and the man from her company covered his mouth with his hand to hide his snickering. Her CO was not impressed, glowering at her, but, grinding his teeth together, he continued on. "You and Fiebig are two of very few soldiers that speak English fluently. I want you to go to the edge of the bridge and tell the Americans that, as we cannot possibly make it over the ravine to surrender, we will make our way up to Berchtesgaden and surrender there." He paused, eyes flicking from Fiebig to Emilie, "Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Understood, sir."

Her CO nodded in approval. Before they put one foot down to leave, however, he added, "Oh. And hold your heads high, walk with pride. You are German soldiers. Act like it, and show them that even in defeat we are a force to be reckoned with." She noticed that he was displaying all of his medals on his clean field uniform.

Emilie nodded, his words coursing through her as she straightened, smoothed her uniform, saluted, and turned on her heel, marching away towards the destroyed bridge with Fiebig close by her side. She would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous, but was glad she could do one last thing for her army, and that her CO had trusted her enough to allow her to do it.

They crossed the distance between their company and the blown bridge, covering open land that made them both feel a little wary and uncomfortable and they quickened their pace slightly. The sun beat down on them, and she absently hoped her pale skin wouldn't burn horribly. Demont and Freidrich Fiebig came to a halt at the edge of the ravine in unison, standing straight and proud, arms held rigidly by their sides.

"We're here to inform you of our honourable surrender," Emilie called to the Americans in English, who all looked a little startled to see her there. She spotted Eugene and Bull walking behind a jeep, and, when they heard her voice ring out, they both stopped dead and snapped their heads around to stare at her. She struggled to hide her smile.

A group of Americans gathered together and talked urgently for a moment before finally two Colonels, a French General, an American Major and a Captain marched towards the other edge of the ravine. The Americans looked considerably more dirty than the Germans, who strove to look their best even in foxholes.

"What, so first you try to kill us, then you surrender when things aren't going your way?" The Captain called sarcastically, eyebrows raised. The Major turned to him and muttered something under his breath, obviously telling him to behave, to which the Captain rolled his eyes but fell silent. They were both good-looking, the Major a redhead like herself, though his hair was far more well-groomed than her own birds nest.

One of the Colonels, a tall, older man with a large, grey moustache, shot a warning glance to the men behind him before taking a small step forward. "I apologise for the behaviour of Captain Nixon," he told them in a heavy Southern accent, raising his voice to be heard over the expansive gap separating them, "We accept your surrender, but…" He gestured to the remnants of the bridge in front of him, "How exactly are you going to get over here to be escorted to a prisoner of war camp? I'm assuming Germans don't have the ability to sprout wings."

Fiebig spoke up this time, sounding a little more nervous than Emilie. She watched him from the corner of her eye, silently urging him to suck it up. The Americans were intimidating, certainly, but they had to keep their cool and demand respect. "W-we are…" Fiebig trailed off and the other Colonel and French General exchanged an amused look. Emilie bit her tongue to stop herself from snapping at them. The German cleared his throat and continued more strongly, getting more used to once again speaking in English, albeit with a strong accent, "We are going to continue up to Berchtesgaden and surrender there."

"Well, don't get lost on the way." The man she now knew as Nixon clearly hadn't intended for the Germans to be able to hear his comment, as, when he looked up to see Fiebig staring at him incredulously and Emilie smirking amusedly, he blushed and cleared his throat.

"Thanks for the tip, Captain," Emilie called to him just as sarcastically. The Major gave a half-smile, glancing at the man beside him.

The French General let out a rumbling laugh, patting Nixon on the back so hard he wheezed. "I think Captain Nixon here has finally met his match, ey?" he chuckled in a loud, heavily-accented voice. The American gave a weak smile, but looked as though he wanted to get as far away from the man as possible, rubbing his back.

Behind the five soldiers, a few of the other Americans wolf-whistled at Emilie and she saw Gene stiffen. Once more, she had to fight back a grin.

"Make sure to turn yourselves in to the first American you see," the first Colonel instructed them, ignoring what was going on behind him, "We don't want to risk y'all being shot at."

Everyone clearly expected Nixon to have something to say about that, as there was a pause in the conversation where they all glanced at him. He frowned, looking around at the numerous sets of eyes turned on him. "What?"

"The United States Army and the entire Allied Forces thanks you for your cooperation," continued the Colonel, focusing once more on the Germans, sounding like he was reading off a script he had performed countless times before.

"Sorry about the roadblock, Yanks," Emilie teased with a sincere face, "Good luck getting around that."

With that, Emilie and Fiebig saluted in unison before marching back to their company. And that was Emilie's first proper encounter with Allies of any considerable rank. She was almost impressed with herself, a relatively new feeling; a General, two Colonels, a Major and a Captain had all come forward to greet a sergeant and a private.

_A/N: So, of course, I don't even have to tell you who those Americans were. But I will anyway aha! Colonel Strayer, Colonel Sink, Nixon, and Winters. It was so great to finally write for Nixon omfg. :D I would have included General Taylor, but meh. The French General was Jacques Phillipe Leclerc, the famous commander of the 2__nd__ Armoured Division. The French had supposedly been on the right flank of the Americans for the past week as they travelled up to Berchtesgaden, but the Americans continuously lost contact with them, as they were there one minute, gone the next; the French were stopping everywhere to loot, and to send it back to France every time they filled up a few trucks._

_Well, on with the show that will soon be drawing to a close… NOOO! Also, in the mini-series, it shows that the American advance on Berchtesgaden was stopped by lots and lots of large rocks on the road leading up to it, but I've chosen to go with the book, that spoke of the bridge._

_Hope you enjoyed. (;_

_xx_


	58. Home Of Evil

_A/N: So, I'm seriously interfering with the timeline here to make it work for the story. Sorry ahaha! In reality, Winters back-tracked down to the Autobahn to try to outflank the roadblock the Germans had created with the blown bridge and get to Berchtesgaden another way. That actually took a few days, as they were stopped by another blown bridge for the night. So I'm just going to say that it actually took a day for the Germans to get up to Berchtesgaden (for some reason) even though it would actually have taken only an hour or two. I don't know, maybe one of the carts lost a wheel. Yeah, that's it. And Winters left with the battalion after speaking with Emilie._

_But that's just a minor thing. The other, bigger one is the fact that the German officer actually gave his speech to his soldiers in Zell Am See, Austria, not in Berchtesgaden, but I'm saying the opposite just to make it fit. I might also rearrange some events, but just bear with me, my dears. I try to stick as close to what actually happened as possible, but sometimes I just can't. c: _

_Enjoy. :D_

_xx_

Berchtesgaden was like something out of a fairy-tale. She had seen beauty before in Europe, but this rivalled any landscape she had ever set her eyes on. Snow-capped mountains, dark green woods, tinkling, icy creeks, gingerbread houses, the colourful dress of the natives. It really was stunning. But the fact that this was the place all the most decorated Nazis had come to be close to Hitler cast a dark shadow over the land. The Nazis had been put in the finest accommodations money could buy, with all the new electricity. It made her sick just thinking about it, but to actually see it with her own eyes…

In the distance, Emilie could see the 8,000ft high _Aldershorst_, or the Eagle's Nest as it was known outside of Europe. It was perched atop a mountain like an ominous demon passing judgement on all he saw; she had heard stories and seen pictures of the gold-leaf elevator which ran up to the stone retreat. All the leaders of Europe had gone to the Aldershorst to be humiliated by Hitler in the late '30's: Daladier of France, Mussolini of Italy, Schuschnigg of Austria, Chamberlain of Great Britain. The list went on.

Eberhardt would have had a field day here.

The first thing her CO did when they arrived was find the nearest American of a suitable rank to formally surrender to; a lieutenant was the best he could seek out at such short notice. Emilie accompanied him and translated all he said. He seemed to hate having to rely on her assistance, but she revelled in it. The lieutenant called over a few American soldiers to escort the Germans to the POW camp that had been set up at the rear. They looked at her curiously, but asked no questions.

As the Germans were lead away like cattle, American soldiers ran up and weaved through their ranks, looting them of watches, lugers and other guns, knives and fur-lined coats. Most of the Germans took it all in pretty good spirit, as most were too tired to even argue, but every once in a while one wouldn't want to be relieved of the extra weight. A pistol flashed in their face by an American quickly changed their mind.

Emilie watched, disgusted. Yes, it was a kind of tradition for the conquering army to loot going back to Caesar's time. But that didn't make it any better. Who were these boys to take what was rightfully theirs from them? When a Yank soldier came over to Emilie and looked expectantly at her, she rolled her eyes. "I'm a medic," she snapped, "If you want some bandages and morphine, be my guest, but you aren't going to get a whole lot else off me."

He looked mildly surprised that she spoke English, but said nothing of it. She thought that he was going to leave, but then his gaze found the silver necklace just peeking out of her chest pocket. At first she thought he was staring at her breasts, but then remembered. Silver was pretty precious with all the rationing.

"Hand it over, sweetheart," the soldier ordered, holding out his hand.

Emilie held her ground. "Like Hell."

"Don't make me ask you again."

She was prepared to get into a fist fight with the guy when another soldier, this time a British one, from behind the American stopped what he was doing and called, "Hey, mate, leave the _Fraulein_ alone."

He groaned like a child being told they can't have the toy they want, looking over his shoulder. "But she's got a great piece of silver, ya Limey. Silver! Do you hear me? _Silver!_"

The Brit walked over and stepped between Emilie and the American, who sputtered out that he had no right. "Love, I'm sorry about this Yank, yeah? Blimey, they are a handful and a half." The American, by this point, was seething, but, before he did anything stupid, he turned and stormed back to his buddies, who were sorting through their prizes like trick-or-treaters examining their candy booty.

Emilie nodded in thanks to the British soldier, who smiled before walking away.

She walked beside Kuhn and Ehrlichmann in silence for the remainder of the trip. All around her, despite the fact they had been stripped of their weapons and accessories, the Germans marched with their heads held high, just as her CO had instructed. As they passed the young Americans, who looked dirty, ill-disciplined, and small in numbers, Emilie could tell what her comrades were thinking even if they never voiced their opinions: how the Hell did we lose to these guys?


	59. Parting Ways

The POW camp was nothing too snazzy. A few buildings for them, the bare necessities, and a handful of American soldiers to guard them. But the Germans didn't complain much; they were just happy to have a roof over their heads, and had learned to not take anything for granted. They were allowed to write a letter home, but, naturally, Emilie skipped out on that. Her mother would have torn it up and thrown it out without even reading it, anyway.

In the morning, four Americans arrived while the Germans were standing in rows, obedient and silent. Emilie looked up from where she had been eating the sweetest, juiciest apple she had ever tasted to see Captain Nixon, that fiery-haired Major and another soldier she didn't know sitting in an army jeep. But what really caught her attention was that, sitting in the back, looking rather bored, was, if her eyes weren't deceiving her, the man that had run straight through the German line back in Foy. He looked much cleaner, but she was pretty sure it was him. Well, what were the chances?

As soon as they turned off the car engine, her CO walked over to them and said something to which the Major nodded politely. Her CO was dressed in the whole works; displaying his medals, with his black coat with red lining, cap with golden symbol on the front. And there he was, asking permission or something of the like from a far younger American Major. What had they come to? In truth, she hadn't even realised that he spoke English. Why hadn't he gone to surrender himself, and why had he acted as though he needed an interpreter? She would never know. Possibly to preserve his pride.

Dipping his head, her CO marched to the front of his gathered soldiers, up onto a rise of earth. She stood up and took her place between Kuhn and Ehrlichmann at the edge. Her commanding officer began to speak in Deutsch, voice thick with emotion, looking out over his men. "Men, it has been a long war, it has been a tough war." He paused and she saw him breathe deeply before continuing, voice ringing out in the silence, "You have fought bravely, proudly, for your country. You are a special group, who found in one another a bond that exists only in combat among brothers of shared foxholes. Held each other in dire moments. Have seen death and suffered together. I am proud to have served with each and every one of you. You deserve long and happy lives in peace." She glanced over to see that the Americans were looking gobsmacked and actually moved, as though they hadn't realised how similar the two armies were, "And you are needed to help rebuild your home."

The men all cheered, and even Emilie was amongst them, at the top of her lungs.

But that was when it hit her. The company was being discharged. They would most likely leave when their CO was transferred. The POWs would soon be shipped home and left to fit back home into normal life on their own. But this _was_ normal for her now, and for most everyone. Around her, some of the men were crying as they hugged each other and saluted their ranking officers.

She had never shown weakness in front of her men before; she had forbidden herself to. But now, she thought _what the hell? _This might be the last time she saw any of them, and it was the end of the war, cause to go a little crazy and show emotion.

Ehrlichmann was standing a little awkwardly, back from the commotion, while Kuhn had already been dragged into the group and was currently shaking hands and smiling at his friends. Even the men that had followed Eberhardt and turned their backs on Emilie, including the one that had struck her in her foxhole back in Bastogne, looked at her and nodded, calling a truce. Though she still didn't fully forgive them, she nodded back. No point spending her life resenting them. That was reserved specially for her parents.

"Well," she turned to Ehrlichmann, a single tear running down her cheek and collecting on her collarbone. He looked mildly surprised to see her crying. "Guess this is the end of the line, huh?"

He nodded sadly. "I suppose so."

She tried to smile the best she could but her chin quivering ruined her attempt. Emilie choked back a sob, opening up her arms. Ehrlichmann looked uncertain for a moment, before realising what was happening and closing the gap between them, pulling her into a tight embrace. He rubbed her back comfortingly, but she still didn't get the same feeling she got whenever she was close to Gene.

"You know, I'm actually going to miss you," she told him, drawing back and wiping her eyes, "Remember when we didn't get along at all?"

He chuckled lightly. "The first time we met in Bastogne, you screamed at me."

Emilie laughed softly, nodding and grinning despite the warm, salty tears that dripped into her mouth. "Don't you ever change, you hear me? Don't ever stop bein' your annoying self."

"Same goes for you, Emilie," he replied, "You can do a world of good outside the army. Just don't forget us."

She raised her eyebrows at him, rubbing the dark circles under her wet eyes. "Right, like that's even possible." She licked her lips, looking down before raising her eyes back to his face. She continued in a quiet voice, "I don't think a single day will pass that I don't think about all of you and the time we spent together. Not all of it was fantastic, but you really are like brothers to me, even the men that had died." Usually, she would have stopped there before she began thinking about all the people she had lost. But, no. She continued to wipe her eyes as she went down the list, her voice cracking every so often. "Eichmann. Kattenstroht. Drechsler. Renée. Augusta Chiwi. Van Patten. Williamson. Bernd. Amsel. Bergmann." She broke off, shaking her head. The names continued on in her head, but she didn't speak them. She couldn't.

Ehrlichmann gazed down at her sympathetically, placing a hand on her shoulder and gently squeezing it. He didn't ask about the non-German names. She bit her bottom lip, looking up at him, smiling shakily. "Go back to your mother and your brother in Wiesbaden. See? I do listen after all, contrary to popular belief. Have a great life, Ehrlichmann. Maybe we'll run in to each other later down the track."

"I'll be waiting for that day, sergeant Demont."

They took a step back from each other and saluted. For some reason, though she had saluted hundreds of times before, that was when she remembered something she had once read as a child, about where the act of saluting originated from. In India centuries ago, when they saw a prince or king, they would carry such a strong glow and aura that the commoners would have to shield their eyes to protect them from their blinding glory. And thus it became a sign of respect. The things that she stored in her fucked-up mind.

Turning, she sucked in a breath, put on a brave face, and squeezed through the cram of soldiers in search of Kuhn. As the men saw her passing, some shook her hand and patted her on the back, thanking her for everything she had done for them. Each time she replied by thanking them for all they had done for her.

Eventually, she found Kuhn saying his farewells to a sergeant and waited a little way away until the other man left. In that time, in between being bustled by the other soldiers as they moved around, she had a chance to remember the first time she had met Kuhn.

It had been on the first day of basic training. It had been raining, and he had been talking to Drechsler, walking backwards in order to face the other man and thus not looking where he had been going, cracking jokes. As clumsy as ever, the inevitable had happened and Kuhn had crashed into Emilie, who had been moping around, not wanting to talk to anyone. She had snapped at Kuhn to look where he was going, and he had told her to calm down, that he was sorry and it was his fault. "You're bloody right it's your fault," she had spat, not really thinking what she had been doing, having been too consumed with her own morbid thoughts. Kuhn, to make it up to her, had introduced himself, and Drechsler had greeted her in turn, smiling shyly but nevertheless charmingly. Kuhn had then gone on to invite her for a drink, but she had declined. Half of her regretted not spending more time with Drechsler while she still could, but another part reasoned that, if she had known him better, it would have hurt even more when he died.

"Emilie."

She was roused from her memories to see Kuhn standing directly in front of her, frowning at her blank expression, a small, thin smile gracing his lips, rather an odd combination of expressions.

Not even bothering to say anything, she walked forwards and, leaning up, fastened her arms around his neck, burying her face into his uniform. She didn't want to leave him. She didn't want to leave any of them. Wrapping his arms around her lower back, he lifted her off her feet and twirled her around before she had a chance to protest; she had to draw in her legs in order to not hit the soldiers around them. It reminded her of her first day in Bastogne, when a similar thing had occurred. Just as before, when he set her down, she was dizzy.

"Goodbye to you, too," she laughed, blinking away tears.

Kuhn's smile broadened. "I couldn't have gotten through this damn war without you, Emilie."

"The feeling is mutual, my friend." She sniffled and his eyes softened even further.

"Don't cry." He soothed, sounding worried, "Why are you crying? I have never seen you cry before, not since that time in training when you missed your brother and I found you in your quarters."

Emilie had forgotten about that, and realised just how many people knew what her brother had meant to her – still did mean to her. She chuckled. "Why am I crying?" she echoed in disbelief, "Do you really need to ask that? I'm leaving my best friends, my family! That gets to a girl."

He sniggered, hiding his mouth behind his hand and looking down, shaking his head.

"What?" She frowned.

Kuhn looked up, still smiling. "Nothing. It's just… I've never, in the whole time I've known you, heard you actually refer to yourself as a girl. You've always considered yourself one of the men."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to hearing it," she warned, smirking, "I am still one of the guys."

After saying her last farewells to Kuhn and struggling to keep from crying the entire time, her last stop was her CO. She found him standing away from the commotion, only interacting with men when they walked over to him. But it wasn't because he was rude or thought the soldiers were beneath him, as General Tolsdorf had. She could see the pain in his eyes, and just how much he would miss them even if he never said so. He was almost as stubborn as her, and that's saying something.

She ducked between two men and came to a halt in front of him. There was silence between them for a few moments, but in that time more was said than either of them could ever hope to put into words. Finally, she broke the quiet and stuck out her hand. He looked down at it for a second before taking it in his own and shaking, clasping his other hand over it as well. Emilie smiled faintly.

"Well, big guy," she began, not really knowing what to say. Nothing could really sum up what they had gone through together. They had started out resenting each other, with Emilie the dysfunctional new-recruit that never followed orders and enjoyed stepping on his toes, he the stern veteran that had already survived one war. He was the stereotypical German, the type that expected everything to be done on the dot. If a train was so much as one minute late, that was simply unacceptable in his eyes. But now, they had come to a kind of understanding, one that was derived from mutual respect. He had become almost a father figure to her. She continued. "It's been a long run. You did a good job. Will you be staying in the army?"

He nodded. "Yes." He glanced around at the men around him before adding, "But I doubt I will ever command a finer group of men." He must have seen her eyebrows shoot up as he looked down at her, smiling ever-so-slightly. "And women. Your praise means a lot to me, sergeant Demont. You did your job well, going well beyond the call of duty to follow your heart. I respect that."

"Thank you." Her voice came out weakly and she cleared her throat.

"There is no need to thank me," he told her in a strong tone, "It is the truth. And it is a shame Eberhardt couldn't see that. But do not let yourself feel guilty about that unfortunate incident. You were right when you said you did us a favour, and, from the tone of the letter his wife addressed to us after she learned of his death, I would even be so bold as to say she was also glad. That may be disrespectful, but what I am trying to say is that…" Were those tears in his eyes? "I won't babble any longer. It has been an honour to serve with you." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently before releasing her from his grip.

Emilie stared up at him, at a loss for words. "I… I don't know what to say," was all she could manage, rather unintelligibly. She chuckled, wiping her eyes. "Good luck, sir."

With one last farewell, she stepped around him and began to walk back to her quarters. The POWs would be allowed out into the town, but under close observation. She glanced back, watching all the men for a few minutes and feeling her heart shatter in two. She didn't want to leave them, but, at the same time, she could never stay in the army, simply because, as her CO had said, she would never have another group of soldiers like them. They were… Amazing, inspirational, a truly special group that should be treasured by their country. And she almost couldn't believe she had had the chance to be a part of that. The memories, good and bad, would stay with her forever.


	60. The Dreams In Which I'm Dying

That night she woke up screaming.

It was a new nightmare this time. Eberhardt was chopping at her defenceless little brother with that dagger he had kept around his ankle; dead at his feet, already sliced and diced, were all of her company, their bodies piled high and blood flooding around her feet in a warm, sticky, stinking tide. Kuhn, her CO, Ehrlichmann, Karl… And she hadn't been able to do a thing, a recurring undertone in all of her dreams.

When she started awake, she was already on the edge of her bed and crashed to the floor below, making her gasp in pain and surprise_. It's just a dream, it's just a dream, calm down. _And yet it had felt so real, and her heart was threatening to burst from her chest in terror.

In nothing but her short night dress, she ran out of her room, barefoot, and darted frantically to the buildings she knew her friends were in. Peeking in through the door, she was greeted by the sound of soft snoring, but, though that offered her some relief, it didn't help with the shaking in her hands as the memories of the dream refused to shed away. What if leaving them meant they were in danger? But soon they would be returning home. Surely they would be okay.

But, God, that dream… She was too scared to go back to sleep, and the fear had woken her up well and truly.

Her head foggy, she slipped out of the camp under the cover of darkness, walking right past the American guards currently on duty. She was getting good at evading detection. She made her way into town, where a number of the GIs were still partying with the DPs; she knew they were supposed to wear white arm bands so they could be told apart from the German women, as the displaced persons were exempt from the non-fraternisation policy, but she had seen DPs before, and none of those women that wore the arm bands fit the bill. Still, no one complained.

Emilie spotted an American soldier with the symbol of Easy Company on his helmet, which he still wore for some reason, who looked more-or-less sober, and made her way over to him. He raised his eyebrows at her as she approached, eyes sweeping over her lustfully, swaying a little on his feet. Perhaps not as sober as she had thought.

"Well, hiya, gorgeous," he slurred, "How you goin'?"

She didn't smile indulgently like she usually would have. "Where's Doc Roe?" she demanded, voice still a little shaky. She was struggling to not seem utterly terrified on the outside. She just needed comfort, a friendly face, and she couldn't go to any of her men. As much as she loved and cared for them, her best friends, she didn't want to upset them, and she still kept things hidden. But Gene was a caring medic, and he would understand. She hoped.

The man seemed taken aback and held up his hands as though surrendering, though a grin was still plastered on his face. He jerked his head towards a two-story building about twenty metres away and she followed his gaze. "In there, missing out on all the fun. Second floor, third door on the right." She thanked him and, as she turned to leave, he added playfully, waggling his eyebrows suggestively, "You two rascals have fun."

Not bothering replying, Emilie turned and made her way briskly to the building. Though it was quite nippy and she wasn't wearing a considerable amount, she hardly felt the cold with all the adrenaline rushing through her. She pushed open the unlocked door and bounded up the stairs, almost tripping and landing flat on her face when her bare foot caught on one of the steps, but she managed to regain her balance and continued on up. She didn't even know what she was going to do when she saw him. All she knew was that she could very possibly be breaking down, and the thought struck fear right into the centre of her heart.

She counted down the doors on the right and stopped in front of the third one. The floorboards creaked underneath her. No noise came from inside the dark room. With a clenched fist to hide the shaking that had since increased even further, she raised her hand slowly, pausing for a moment, before finally knocking loudly on the wooden door. Outside on the streets below, there were the happy, drunken shouts of men and women.

When there was no answer, she knocked once more, only to be cut off as the door opened slightly, bathing her in the dim light of a single bedside lamp. Though Eugene was no more than a simple silhouette against it, she could tell it was him, wearing his white PT shirt and black pants, looking half-asleep.

"Miss Demont?" He sounded confused, groggy, but not unhappy to see her.

Before he had time to get another word in, and before she even knew what she was doing, just like the last time back in Hagenau, she closed the gap between them, pressing their lips together and slamming the door shut with her foot. Not breaking the desperate, hungry kiss, she pushed him backwards, following, and edged him onto the small, single bed. He seemed surprised, but didn't protest.

She landed lightly on top of him, all but straddling him, hips grinding against his. When she leaned down to kiss him once more, drawing her legs back together and straightening them, he widened his knees to accommodate her smaller size so her legs were tucked securely between his. She tucked one hand up his shirt and was rewarded by warm skin. But, when she drew back briefly to suck in a breath, he caught her wrists in his hands, staring up at her. "You're crying," he murmured with obvious concern, however breathless he was.

Gene gently rolled her off of him, still softly gripping her wrists, so she was wedged securely between him and the cold wall. Breaking free of him, she rolled onto her other side to face the wall, angrily wiping the tears from her eyes. "Dammit, Gene," she muttered, mind still spinning so much she felt dizzy and had to close her eyes, hoping the memory of her dream wouldn't play out again in the darkness, "All I wanted was a good fuck to take my mind off things."

"Isn't the first time meant to be… Y'know, romantic?" he pointed out in a quiet voice, chest still heaving against her back, "Not when you're cryin', I mean."

Emilie shook her head, voice dark and bitter. "Open your eyes, Gene. Nothing in war is ever going to be romantic. Everyone leaves me in the end, so I wanna make the most of the time we do have." He sure had to put up with a lot of her shit.

"Well, I'm not leavin', so you'll have to put up with me for a long time yet. Now, why're you cryin'?"

"Don't worry about it."

"I am worryin' about it, miss Demont. Tell me. Maybe I can help."

She let out a weak chuckle. "Or what?" When he didn't reply, simply waited for her to tell him what was wrong, she sighed and sat up, preparing to leave. "I'm sorry I ever came here and ruined your night."

But, before she could get off the bed, Gene wrapped his fingers around her forearm and drew her back to him. "Oh, no, you don't get out of it that easily," he told her, voice gentle, "I'm not lettin' you go back alone to cry yourself to sleep. You're spendin' the night here, and that's that. I'm not sorry you came here."

Hesitantly, she lay back down onto her back; he rolled onto his stomach so he could face her. He brushed a finger under her eye to collect the tears that were gently rolling down her face and she sniffled. Emilie was about to turn away from him once more when he placed a hand gently but securely on her hip to keep her where she was, looking down at her with worry shimmering in his gaze. His hand was warm through the thin material of her short, black night dress.

"I…" Emilie trailed off, flicking her eyes up to look at him. They simply gazed at each other for a long moment before she began to speak once more. "You're going to think I'm completely mad, but I… Well, hell, I had a nightmare and I over-reacted. Happy?"

Eugene shook his head. "I've had my fair share of nightmares since I enlisted." His voice was sympathetic and understanding, to the extent her heart squeezed and the thought that she didn't deserve him flashed through her mind. "It's nothin' to be ashamed of."

"It was about Eberhardt," she continued, "The man I…" Her throat closed off and she barely managed to choke out, "Killed."

His gaze darkened for a second, a shadow passing over his face as he remembered that night. But then his gaze flicked back down to her and he let out a sigh. "I was there. There was nothing else you could have done." She opened her mouth to argue but he touched his finger to her lips, which, surprisingly, actually worked and she remained silent, annoyed with herself. "I know what you're gonna say, but people die in wars. God knows I've struggled to accept that, and I don't know if I have yet, not fully, but… You need to find a way to forgive yourself, Emilie, or you won't be able to survive."

After a minute of thinking his words over, Emilie smiled shakily. She leaned up and softly kissed him. When she lay her head back down on the pillow, he asked quietly, "What was that for?"

She chuckled, sniffing. "You called me Emilie."

In the end, she caved and did spend the night. She lay on her side, still facing away from him, slotted right in beside him, perfectly, his chest pressed to her back. Their legs were entwined, his foot trailing softly up hers; when she tried to shake him off, chuckling when it tickled, she could tell he was smiling even without looking at him and he would continue to pester her playfully.

But, when she eventually did drift unwillingly into a restless sleep when she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer, she drew up her knees to touch the cold, smooth white wall and began to shake as dark thoughts engulfed her dreams. Whenever she whimpered or cried out in her sleep, Eugene would tighten his grip around her stomach and pull her closer to him, running a hand soothingly through her hair until she settled down. "I'm here all night," he would murmur in her ear.

And he was. She had half expected him to leave her. But he stood guard beside her the entire duration of the night, dozing off every so often only to be brought back to consciousness at her slightest movement, always there to calm her down simply with his touch.

Half way through the night, Emilie rolled over and nestled her head into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. And as she lay there, in that delirious, strange state between consciousness and sleep, she thought that he acted as a kind of dream-catcher, fighting away her bad dreams. No night had ever been sweeter.


	61. Are The Best I've Ever Had

_A/N: aodsncaushdcuzhc words cannot describe how sorry I am for not updating sooner! I've had a few more chapters written up and ready to upload for quite some time, but I haven't had access to the internet until now. Woe is me! Hopefully, I'll have a few more chapters up by today, as a gift to all you patient, loyal readers. 3_

_Enjoy!_

_xx_

_Where am I?_

She flickered open her eyes, confused for a second as she looked up at the unfamiliar ceiling, her vision blurred by sleep and dried tears encrusting her cheeks and making her eyelashes stick together. That was when she remembered and couldn't refrain from smiling a little. She was warm under the blankets that had been drawn over her, but there was still something missing. Glancing over, she saw that Gene wasn't beside her. For a brief moment, she felt her heart sink and anger rise inside her at the thought that he had left her, but then she spotted him seated across the room, doing up his boots.

When he saw that she was awake, he smiled and straightened in the chair, lowering his foot back down to the ground. "How are you feelin'?"

Emilie stretched, making her muscles quiver, and yawned loudly. "Just one of these days I would like to actually sleep in," she sighed, rolling onto her stomach and propping her head up with her hands, "But I just can't get used to the idea that I'm not going to be woken up by bullets and screams." She shivered, letting out a breath and lowering her gaze.

"Well, ya safe now." But she could tell Gene was hurting just as much as her, that he was also haunted by what he had seen and what he had had to do. Other people said that the war was worth fighting and dying for if it meant that the future generations were able to live in a world without tyranny and oppression. But Emilie couldn't help wondering _what about us?_ They were the sacrificial generation.

_I guess I wasn't born at the right time. _But someone had to do it. And maybe other men and women wouldn't have succeeded. Maybe it needed to be them. Maybe they were the ones that were born into simple lives but destined to be heroes.

"Look, I'm sorry if I intruded last night." She was so used to apologising for everything that it had become almost second nature to her; apologising to the ones she lost, the ones that she had saved and that had to live another day in a nightmare land.

Eugene stared at her for a moment, studying her face, before rising and walking over to her. He took a seat on the bed beside her; the mattress sank slightly under his added weight and she unintentionally moved a little closer to him as a result. Reaching forward, he clasped her hand in his, scoffing. "Don't be silly," he scolded her good-naturedly, though there was a darkness to his words lurking just below the surface, "I didn't want to be left alone with my thoughts last night, anyway. When you came here, it was like God answered my prayers."

_God_… She bit her tongue to stop herself from voicing her fairly new opinion about the guy. She wasn't sure she would ever fully reconcile herself with God. Other men and women found their place in religion during the war, thinking they would only survive if the Lord was watching over them. But she had had just the opposite experience. She had gone in with the cross around her wrist, come out with it bare.

"I made you some tea," Gene spoke up after a minute of silence, "But it's probably cold now."

Emilie couldn't help a small laugh, squeezing his callused hand that somehow still managed to feel soft.

At that moment, someone knocked loudly on the door, making them both jump as though it were a bomb. "It's like Grand Central Station in here," Gene muttered. He walked over, opened the door and another man bounced in. "Heffron," he greeted.

"Doc. Major Winters has organised a baseball game and—" Heffron broke off to peer around Gene, his eyes lighting up as he saw Emilie. He glanced up at his medic, beaming. She smirked, sitting up and drawing the blanket up to her chin. _Busted._ "Oh. Sorry, I didn't know you had a broad in here. I'll get out'a your hair. You know where the field is." Before he left, he smiled at Emilie, still peering around Eugene. "Hiya, I'm Babe." Then he frowned. "Wait a minute, weren't you—"

Before he could ask, Gene placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him out of the room. She could hear 'Babe' bombarding him with questions, but the half-Cajun simply grunted at most of them. "I'll be down in a minute, Heffron." And the other man seemed to realise it was useless trying to get anything more out of the medic when he used that tone of voice.

"Goodbye, mystery woman!" Heffron called over his shoulder as he began to leave, "And you treat Doc here well."

As Gene stepped back into the room, clicking the door shut behind him, he looked ready to apologise. Then he saw the grin that was plastered across her face and he stopped, frowning slightly.

"That's the kind of guy I have to look forward to meeting?" she asked, eyes bright for the first time in a long while. Briefly, the thought that that was also the kind of guy her men had been trying to kill crossed her mind and a flash of guilt flashed through her, but she shoved it away. She was going to try to get through today without hating herself.

Gene's face was a little red from embarrassment. "Yeah, I'm sorry about—"

"Don't apologise, _dummkopf_," she laughed, jumping out of bed and going over to stand in front of him. She purposely used the German word; she was proud of her heritage and tossed around words here and there to watch for his reaction. If he couldn't handle the fact she had German blood in her, he wasn't the right man for her. But he took it all in stride, never so much as flinched. "That's it, I'm coming along to this baseball game to watch. I wanna meet the rest of these guys."

He blinked, surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"They might not like that you were in the _Wehrmacht_."

Emilie scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Gene, have you seen them down on the streets? I don't think they really care if a woman's German. Besides, if I'm with you, _Doc_, I don't think they would dare say anything. They worship you."

"They don't worship me," he protested, looking as though he had never considered that before, "I just did my duty, same as them. No, it's Major Winters they worship."

She smiled. "Whatever you say." That was when she remembered the Major that had come forward to greet Fiebig and herself when the Germans surrendered. "Is that the redhead?" When Gene nodded, she added, "Then it's decided. I want to properly meet this man if everyone supposedly worships him." Her smile faded. "That is, if it's okay with you. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable."

Gene pretended to think it over for a second before smiling down at her once more and taking her hand in his. It was still enough to send sparks shooting through her. She felt like a pathetic schoolgirl all shy around her crush. "Are you kiddin'?" he chuckled, "I'd love to show you off to the others."

A thought sprang into her head and she glanced down at what she was wearing. She bit her lip. "I'll have to go back to the POW camp to change." The thought filled her with an odd dread. As much as she wanted to see them all again, just one last time, she was sure that, if she did, she wouldn't have the will to ever leave them.

He frowned for a moment before a thought clearly sprang into his head as he dropped her hand, turned and walked over to a chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Eugene pulled out each drawer and expected them each for a second before he finally found the one he was looking for and stood back with it still open. "There are a whole bunch of dresses in here if you wanna give 'em a look," he told her.


	62. You're Not Alone Anymore

_A/N: So, just thought I should say this is not the final chapter ahahha. Wow, it's really dragging on! But it'll wrap up soon, I'm sorry to say. I would say I have a life outside this fic… But that's really not true ahahahha. Anyway, this chapter is an example of me mixing around events; this game happened in Zell Am See, but I'm saying it happened in Berchtesgaden, just so I could have a relaxed way for her to meet the rest of the men. The next few chapters will really be events that actually happened while the men were celebrating, but with me slipping Emilie into them. Guilty as charged. (;_

_Wow, I was very, very unhappy with this chapter when I was first writing it, but I guess it's okay now that I'm looking at it with a fresh mind, and with my writing mojo back. Yay! :D Also, I should probably point out that I love Speirs. It just seems like I was picking on him here lol._

_Enjoy, my loves!_

_xx_

Emilie stretched in the sun. The slight-heeled shoes she had borrowed lay by her bare feet as her toes threaded through the bright green grass of the baseball field. She had found a dress her size, a very pale green colour with white trimming. Gene had still insisted on looking away when she changed, to give her privacy and not make her uncomfortable, and she had simply laughed and rolled her eyes. She wouldn't have minded if he had seen anything.

On the way to the baseball game, Eugene had told her about how he used to love sport in school before he dropped out, and that he had continued to play it even after that; he said that when he had contracted polio as a child and was unable to go outside to play any sport, that had been a miserable time indeed. Emilie had also enjoyed certain sports as a child, mostly because her mother had forbidden her to get muddy so, of course, she had. While other girls in school were taught how to cook and sew, she had purposely failed at all those subjects simply because she had had no intention of ever being a housewife. So she had run off with the boys to play football, basketball and whatever else they fancied; she had never hung around much with her own gender. She hated women and women hated her.

Now she watched as the men in front of her bowled, fielded and batted. Gene was back in his PT gear, as were Babe Heffron and Bull, still with a cigar in his mouth. Sitting on the sidelines on army jeeps, watching with smiles but not participating, were some of the officers, including Major Winters and Captain Nixon, along with that man she had seen in Foy and again in the POW camp. She had yet to learn his name. None of the men seemed to notice her, too absorbed with what they were doing. Gene had also told her a little about some of the men, and the entire time she had been watching, she was trying to put faces to names with the limited descriptions of the men he had given her. So far, it was not working.

She was a little nervous about finally meeting the rest of the Americans, and hoped they wouldn't turn on her. Though she had sounded confident in front of Eugene, she really wasn't. They could hate her. She was a Kraut, but a Kraut in the army no less. And she should despise them, after all they had done. Yet she just couldn't. Everyone did terrible things in war, it was a requirement.

But still, even that couldn't detract from the pleasant day, the warmth seeming almost surreal after Bastogne. The whole of the war, it had seemed as though all the colour and life had been drained from the world. Everything looked darker, gloomier, scarier. But now, it was as though a veil had been lifted, allowing the sunshine to touch their skin once more. And it was heavenly.

Too caught up with her thoughts that, for once, weren't filled with horrible, gut-wrenching memories, she didn't notice when the men stopped playing and all looked over to where she was sitting. Only when they started walking towards her did it register. Heffron was whispering something excitedly to the man beside him, whose eyes lit up; the soldier she had talked to in the town the night before was grinning; Bull looked as confused as a man not easily unfazed could. _Why do I have a bad feeling about this_? Yet she couldn't help smiling as she listened to them.

"Malark, Winters, you redheads got a cousin or something? This place is being over-run!"

"Hey, hey, all of you back off. I've got first dibs on her."

"You are all acting like Neanderthals, ready to hit her over the head with a club and drag her back to your cave."

"Like what now? Web, you know I don't speak Harvard."

Emilie hopped to her feet, pleased to note her ankle was completely healed, albeit a long, jagged scar it had left behind. When the men came to a stop, forming a sort of semi-circle around her, the man that Heffron had been talking to turned to Eugene with a lop-sided grin. "You banging a Kraut now, Doc?" he teased. He was a handsome man, smaller than the majority of the men with dark hair that flopped to one side. She found she liked him already. What was becoming of the biter, aggressive person she had been not too long ago?

She laughed lightly, face reddening, which seemed to act as reward for the soldier's joke as his eyes flicked back to her and his smile broadened. Gene, on the other hand, did not look impressed, which only made her smile more.

"Hey, shut up, Luz," Bull rumbled from behind him and the other man chuckled. _Ah, so he's the joker Gene warned me about._ "So you survived the war after all, Emilie."

She was almost flattered he remembered her name, and nodded. "I see you did too, Randleman." _Bayoneted anymore Germans recently? _She may not have fully forgiven him for killing Crichton, but such was war. And he seemed like a good guy otherwise.

All eyes turned to him. "What, you know this lady, Bull?" one of the men asked, frowning. She thought she had heard him being referred to as Peewee back on the field.

He shrugged, acting like it was no big deal. "She stitched me up back in Nuenen," he explained to the crowd. Gene glanced at her questioningly and she nodded; by the way he was looking at her, it was easy to think he almost admired her.

That was when it seemed to click for a lot of the men, as they began asking questions over each other.

"What are you, a nurse?"

"Hey, wasn't you at Brécourt Manor, too?"

"Yeah, you were the one that surrendered to us a few days ago, weren't you? I'd remember someone like you anywhere."

Once more, Emilie couldn't hold back the laugh that flew from her lips as she looked over the soldiers in front of her, sweaty but still with so much energy to spare. She wasn't used to dealing with Americans. "Good God!" she exclaimed over the voices, making them settle down as soon as she opened her mouth, "Yanks with half a brain cell. I'm impressed."

That was greeted by chuckling and she could practically see herself rising in their good books. Then again, just being a woman had already ticked all the boxes. "So, are you gonna tell us, or not?" one of the soldiers asked curiously.

"Actually, I'm a medic," she told them, quickly searching each of their faces for any sign of malice. When she found none, she continued on, "For the German army. My name's sergeant Emilie Demont."

Their eyebrows shot up and they turned to whisper things to each other, seemingly impressed but still not aggressive. So far so good. That was the worst bit out of the way, now that they knew who she was.

The man she now knew as Luz asked, leaning forward, "Seriously? You sound pretty damn Australian to me. How'd you land that gig?"

She had been through this a thousand times over, but, strangely, in this particular instance, she didn't mind repeating herself. "My mother's German. I was born there. When I moved Down Under to go to university back in '41, I ended up having to work as a nurse to earn some money to pay for it. Then I was called back home and drafted and, since I had had some medical training, I was assigned to be a medic." Emilie shrugged. "And that's my life story. Boring, I know."

"Boring?" Exclaimed another soldier, this time a smaller, Italian-looking man. "I'm hooked. Lady, your life could be turned into a goddamn movie and I'd pay to see it."

"That's _sergeant_ to you," she corrected with a laugh. The other soldiers elbowed the man in the ribs playfully, chuckling and gloating about how he had just been pulled rank on by a _Fraulein_.

Luz spoke up once more; he had quite the motor-mouth. "Hey, you wanna join in the game, Emilie?" he offered, chucking her the baseball he had been holding.

She caught it easily, tossing it from hand to hand. "Boys and their balls," she joked, which was once again met by laughter. "No, I'll sit out on this one, thanks. You kids have fun."

"Hey, hey, I'll be sure to look extra good out there just for you," another man called.

Emilie smiled crookedly. "I appreciate it," she replied, "But I'll actually be watching Roe over here." With that, she lashed out one hand, caught Gene's arm and drew him towards her; caught off guard, he stumbled, and, to avoid falling, steadied himself by fastening an arm around her waist. When he realised what he had done, he blushed but didn't remove his hand. The men around them whooped and cheered and laughed.

"Fine-lookin' dame you've got yourself there, Doc," Luz commented, grinning.

"Yeah, I'm jealous! Where can I get me one?"

Eugene smiled slightly, looking down at Emilie. "Sorry. One of a kind."

"What's going on here?"

Everyone glanced over to see the officer that she had yet to learn the name of; she was getting used to calling him the Crazy Foy Runner, but she still wanted to know who he was. As soon as they saw him standing there, the soldiers straightened and lost their smiles; in fact, they all looked a little fearful. Winters and Nixon were standing on either side of him in their dress A uniforms, Nixon wearing large, expensive-looking sunglasses. Their gazes found Emilie and their eyebrows shot up. Captain Nixon removed his shades as though he couldn't believe his eyes.

"I asked what was going on here," the officer repeated, sounding stern but not irritated. She supposed he didn't want to ruin the day by losing his temper. His gaze flicked to Emilie and her breath hitched in her throat. She wasn't sure why; she had faced men of far higher ranks than him. But he had a presence that demanded respect. "And who are you?"

Gene took a small step away from her, not wanting to get either of them into trouble. Not that there was much they could do to her. Contact her mummy? "Sergeant Emilie Demont," she introduced herself, and, for some unknown reason, awkwardly added, "Sir." _Dammit, pull it together._

"Speirs, relax," Winters stepped forward and placed a hand lightly on the other man's shoulder, lips set into a tight half-smile. "She was one of the German soldiers that surrendered to us."

Eugene spoke up. "She's with me."

Speirs levelled his scrutinising gaze on the medic. "You do realise there's a non-fraternisation policy?"

"I knew her before that was instated."

"Plus, I'm Australian."

"That doesn't change anything. You're breaking the rules. And as CO, that won't be tolerated."

Now Nixon was forced to intervene, nudging Winters aside, a smirk gracing his features. "Let's all just calm down, shall we?" Speirs glanced at the man that had come up to stand beside him. He looked ready to argue, but Nixon was speaking once more before he got a chance. "Look, war's basically over. I'm sure we can make one, tiny exception."

"Making exceptions to the rules means that soon we'll start excusing violations every which way."

Winters blinked. He had a somewhat calming presence, with his soft voice and kind eyes. "Nix is right, Speirs," he told him, "It's okay. You've done an excellent job making sure the rules are followed, but give this one a little leeway, as a favour to our medic." Even without saying a word to give her that impression, Emilie knew Winters was silently pulling rank on the other man.

Reluctantly, Speirs relented. With a last glance at Gene and Emilie, who both met his gaze evenly, he turned and brushed past the other officers, returning to lean against the jeep and seethe silently. Emilie couldn't help feeling a little triumphant, and she could see that the men around her were all struggling to hide their smiles.

Winters turned to Emilie. "I'm sorry about Speirs," he told her, "He… Well, he takes his job very seriously, to say the least." He tipped his brown hat that boasted his oak cluster and the symbol of a paratrooper. "Major Dick Winters. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Before she had a chance to introduce herself, Nixon ducked in between them and extended his hand. "And I'm Lewis Nixon, Dick's more exciting counter-part." He flashed her a smile. "Welcome to Easy Company."


	63. The Ending Of An Era

_A/N: Aaaaaaah! This is horribly late, again! I have everything mapped out in my head, but for a while I lost my writing mojo /headdesk. But now I'm back in the swing of things and updates should start cropping up far more regularly. Thank you for sticking with it, my darlings, my loves, and for your amazing reviews. If you were here, I would probably crush you all to death with hugs I mean what._

_Enjoy! :D We're drawing very close to the end. I predict about maybe… 5 more chapters, give or take, and then it's adios Emilie! Well, great. I just made myself cry. Seriously. I've unintentionally created my hero and fallen in love with her. Is that baaaad. Ahem. But, after this main story draws to a close and the curtains come down, you won't have to say goodbye to her just yet. I promised the separate story comprised of her flashbacks, and I intend to keep that promise! It will be waaaaay shorter (seriously, how did this get so long?) but hopefully I won't let you down. It'll be mostly just to show how she became who she is today. And I also don't want to let her go but, y'know. Sue me. I'm also considering doing a Christmas special, but we'll see how that goes, so don't get your hopes up just yet. C:_

_xx_

Once a few of the men had cheerfully introduced themselves to her, Winters clapped his hands together and told them all to get on with the game, adding with an amused tone to his voice "and that's an order, soldiers'". Somewhat disappointedly, the men trudged back to the field, but once the game had started up once more they seemed to forget all about the woman watching from the sidelines (a place she had spent so much of her life; now, however, it seemed wonderful).

It was almost a welcome change to what she had been used to in her own army, where the men had been far more stern, with the stiff upper lip the Germans were so famous for. And yet she almost missed that, and forced herself to push aside the resentment for the Americans that threatened to seep back up to the surface. They seemed so happy. No doubt incurably fucked up underneath the façade, but seemingly happy never the less. And what right did they have to be? She could have kicked herself at that moment, and almost did, instead digging her nails into her thigh. Now was the time to let things go. To turn enemies into possible friends.

But, though Nixon had been correct when he said the war was more-or-less over, every man, and woman's, personal war had far from ended.

Perconte (she inwardly congratulated herself at already knowing his name, though, as she had once told Ehrlichmann, she was good with names) had just thrown himself desperately onto the home base, just narrowly too late, when Speirs marched forward. "Easy Company, school circle!" he boomed, the faintest glint of pride in his eyes as he surveyed his company.

The men, puffing and panting, gathered around him. Winters and Nixon had come forward to join Speirs, and Emilie faintly heard Dick comment jokingly, "A fast man would've had it, Perco."

Not sure whether she was stepping out of line, as it may not be her place to join the men in a personal company gathering as she was still an outsider, Emilie tentatively rose to her feet and took a few hesitant steps forward before coming to a halt, uncertain. She was just about to sit back down when Luz and Gene turned to her at the same time from their positions at the back of the group and motioned for her to join them, George with a welcoming, friendly smile on his face. Lewis Nixon caught sight of her but made no sign that he didn't want her there. She breathed out a silent sigh of relief and jogged over, still bare-footed, enjoying the feeling of the spongy grass on her feet that still faintly ached after being trapped in clunky, heavy army boots for so long.

Emilie slipped in between Gene and Luz; some of the others glanced at her and offered exhausted smiles, to which she returned them full-heartedly, though she still felt a little strange fraternising with the enemy. Every time she had done that in the past, it had ended horrifically. She was still trying to convince herself to relax; it was like she had to relearn everything. She arrived just in time to hear Dick say, "Listen up. Got some news."

Everyone seemed to grow a little on edge at that statement; in the civilian world, it would simply be a passing comment. But in the army, it could mean they were being shipped out to the Pacific, in which case Emilie would once again be their foe. She swallowed hard at that, the hair on the back of her neck prickling, suddenly feeling cornered and vulnerable, a feeling she was not well accustomed to.

Winters went on. "This morning, President Truman received the unconditional surrender from the Japanese." A silence gripped them as they waited for him to continue. "War's over."

For a long moment, all any of them could do was stare, as though they couldn't believe what they had just heard. It didn't seem to register. The term 'war's over' was no longer in their vocabulary. Somehow, if it were at all possible, they looked… Sorrowful. This bloody war was who they were now; it was the only unchanging thing in their lives. Their fellow soldiers were beyond family, and the thought that now they would have to leave them and re-join civilian life as best they could seemed to pass through each and every one of their minds. It was a daunting, terrifying prospect, even more frightening than charging into a barrage.

Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed and the men around her were leaping for joy, jumping onto each other's backs and ruffling their hair, yelling at the tops of their lungs and whooping, ecstatic. There were tears: tears of joy, tears of sorrow, tears of simple disbelief, as though all their prayers had been answered in one, fell swoop. The war was over. Motherfucking World War II was finally over, after six long, painful years of death and destruction. Perhaps there was a God after all.

Despite the fact they had only just met, (though Emilie had learnt that didn't matter in the army, that you were family from the moment you first encountered each other) George Luz turned to her and whisked her into his arms; _this seems to happen to me a lot,_ Emilie thought inwardly as she let out a surprised laugh. But where the German men before him had simply whizzed her around, holding her by her waist and barely managed to get her up off the ground, Luz completely picked her up, one arm under her knees and the other gripping her around the shoulders. For a guy barely taller than herself, he sure had muscles, even if it didn't look like it. Throwing her head back, laughing, she secured a hand around his neck as he twirled her around, a grin plastered on his face. Did this mean she had officially been welcomed as an obligatory, unofficial member of Easy Company? She wasn't sure she was worthy of the honour, not her. They deserved someone better. Gene deserved something better. But she didn't want to spoil the day with her bone-deep doubts.

As the land rushed past her disoriented eyes, she saw Gene standing beside them, smiling as his friends hugged him; in her dizziness, it looked as though there were three of him. Hey, she wasn't complaining. The more Genes the better. But whether he was smiling for her or them she couldn't be sure. So she had now seen two different armies celebrating the end of the war. _Quite an accomplishment, if I don't say so myself._

The only person missing from this was that man she had met very briefly in Eindhoven… He had been in Eugene's company, she was certain of that, yet she couldn't see him and couldn't quite remember his name, though his grinning face was still as fresh in her mind as though it were just yesterday. _Right, that's it: Muck!_ But she didn't dare ask where he was, for she already knew there were only two answers to that question, and neither were at all desirable. Then again, death or injury was viewed as a kind relief from the suffering. Why did she feel so sad as she remembered him, then, when they had only talked for less than 30 seconds?

Luz set her down and she stumbled, grinning from ear to ear in a way she hadn't thought possible after going so many years barely managing to feign a small, half-hearted smile, only to reassure soldiers. Before she could fall, however, a man darted in and caught her. She looked up, still chuckling faintly, to see he had pale blonde, almost white, hair and the lightest blue eyes she had ever seen. Though he was smiling, it was far from meeting his sad, heavy eyes. Emilie recognised him as Buck Compton; Gene had told her just a little about the poor guy, but had countered the unfortunate things by going on to explain just how fantastic a soldier he had been. She offered a smile, murmuring a thanks to which he nodded politely.

"I'll take her off your hands."

Both of them looked over to see the half-Cajun medic, still smiling faintly as his eyes flicked to Buck before settling on Emilie. The other men were already starting to jog back to tents that had been set up a little way from the pitch, though their celebratory yells could still be heard. Buck dipped his head. "No problem, Doc." Letting go of Emilie and murmuring that it was nice to meet her, he began to walk away, but stopped as he passed the other man, placing a hand on his arm. "Hey, Gene, thanks for everything, buddy."

Eugene raised a hand to pat Buck's, something unsaid passing between them, before the blonde-haired man smiled once more and jogged after his former comrades, yelling out for them to wait up.

Once he was out of earshot, Emilie turned to Gene, smiling thinly. She should be grinning, but she was just overwhelmed by the realisation that _she was free now._ Eugene seemed to be feeling the same way, and for a long moment they just stared at each other, not having to say a thing, not able to. Then he took a few steps forward and placed his hands on Emilie's shoulders, angling his head down so he could press his forehead to hers. Her breath hitched in her throat like the idiot she was. "War's over, miss Demont," was all he whispered, voice heavy and eyes unreadable despite the fact she had almost learned how to read them.

She nodded, remembering everything that had happened between them – they had come so far since that fateful day. That same day they had met, she had been angry at the world, self-pitying and spiteful. But the second she had left his presence, she hadn't been able to recall what she had been so furious about. She was a moron, but a moron in love. And that was the worst combination in the world.

_Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's just calm down here, _Emilie_. Who said you were in love? Let's not get ahead of our self, yeah? _"I know," she murmured when she had found her voice, "I can't believe it. And I know that sounds cliché, but I just can't."

He chuckled under his breath. "Well, you better start believin' it." With that, he laced his fingers with hers and lead her after the other men. "Or you'll get left behind. Soldiers like to party."


	64. When The World Is Free

Gene has been right about soldiers liking to party; she had never experienced anything like it. Of course, she had witnessed soldiers being drunk and going crazy back in Australia, a mixture of Aussie soldiers waiting to be shipped away, and of American marines passing through on their way to the Pacific, but the difference was that they hadn't yet been to war, so their celebrations were nothing compared to this.

As she thought back to that time, Emilie was reminded of the two marines she had met while at a pub after finishing her shift at the hospital. They had been so proud of being marines, and had clashed a little with the infantry and air force men, as was customary, a tradition almost. What had been their names? One had had quite an odd name to start with, but had then told her to call him something else. If she wasn't mistaken, he had been Cajun, but back then that hadn't mattered much to her. She knew it started with an S. Actually, perhaps both of their names had started with an S… _Oh, c'mon, you're supposed to be good with names. _But it seemed as though it were centuries ago. She couldn't relate to who she had once been, or her memories.

As a bottle smashed outside, she was brought back to the present. The happy, drunken yelling was somewhat smothered by the closed window, but she could still hear it well. She even managed to distinguish a few of the voices, but for the most part they all melted together.

Not being able to sleep, Emilie tossed and turned, almost unintentionally pushing Eugene out of bed at one point; he had managed to lash out one hand at the last minute and place it on the ground to steady himself. She hadn't been able to control her laughter, despite how guilty she had felt, but Gene had taken it all good-naturedly, bless him. She should be exhausted, she knew that. After so much sleep-deprivation, she should be content to sleep for two weeks on end. But she just wasn't used to it anymore.

Whereas most people would have snapped at her to stop wriggling and settle down, whenever she rearranged herself, Gene simply loosened the hold his arm had around her stomach to allow her movement before tightening it once more when she was comfortable, never protesting, never getting angry.

Then, finally, when she rolled onto her stomach, arms folded, and let out a sigh, he reacted. "You wanna go down to join 'em, don't you?" he murmured, and even in the darkness she could tell he was smiling faintly. It was well past midnight.

"No, no," she shook her head, sounding wide awake, "Look, I'm going back to sleep right now."

"You're a terrible liar, you know that?" he chuckled.

Emilie snorted, strangely offended. "I'm actually a fantastic liar. I just haven't had reason to show off my skills just yet."

"Good," his voice suddenly grew serious, though it was still groggy with sleep. Propping himself up with one arm, he looked down at her, his features just visible in the blackness of the room. "We promised long ago that anything we said, we would always jeep between the two of us. I wanna stick to that. No secrets. I'm sick and tired of secrets."

"What, so no mysteries? Where's the fun in that?" Though her tone was joking, there was some sincerity to what she said, though she masked it was mocking words. Even if it was Eugene she was speaking to, the prospect of sharing everything was frightening and put her a little on edge. She had become accustomed to complaining silently, to keeping things to herself. It was how she coped, not letting people in. And to throw that away now, after all this time, seemed almost impossible.

Gene's voice was soft, understanding, as if he knew what she was thinking and wanted to offer her a way out of it, out of the corner she had backed herself into. "Promise me, Emilie."

_How the hell did we even get onto this topic? _But, despite her initial uncertainties, when she finally did speak after a long moment of hesitation, her tone was genuine, surprising even herself, "Fine. I swear by all that is Holy."

"You don't believe in God."

"Alright." Sitting up, she stared him directly in the eye as he, too, straightened. Sucking in a deep breath, she continued. "I swear on my brother's grave."

A silence gripped them, not awkward, per se, but simply… Well, she couldn't describe it. As she stared at him, the pain in her eyes was startling, even in the darkness, and that, in turn, hurt him. It seemed they both felt too much for their own good.

Finally, Eugene spoke, his voice quiet but with so much emotion packed into it, making his accent thicken. "I'm sorry."

Emilie scoffed, shaking her head and leaning forward to rest her head on his chest. "Don't be stupid."

"No, no, I shouldn't have pushed you. It was thoughtless of me." He brought his hand up to rub her arm, pressing his cheek to the top of her head and kissing it lightly.

"Yes, I'm absolutely furious," she replied with a swift roll of her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips despite the fact her heart really did ache at the mention of Tobias. But it wasn't Gene's fault, and she didn't blame him. She had been the one that had brought him up. Once again, it was solely her fault. "And now, to make it up to me, you're gonna let me go down to the celebratin', not that you could really stop me." With a light laugh, she drew back, poking him in the chest with her index finger. "To get away from you."

Gene smiled, seemingly relieved that she wasn't pissed off. "Have fun. Back in the ol' days, I wouldn't ever 'ave passed up the opportunity for a drink. But I'll hang back." His voice grew teasing, though it would have been hard for someone who didn't know him well to even notice the change. "If that's okay with you, miss Demont."

"You sure you don't want to come celebrate the end of the war with your friends?" she asked with a small frown.

He shook his head. "Trust me, I know the guys. This'll go on for days, weeks, even."

Shrugging, Emilie scrambled out of the bed, the floorboards cold against the soles of her feet. Running a hand along the wall for guidance, she made her way over to where she had left her dress flung over one of the chairs. As she stepped out of her night dress and into the one she was going to wear out, she was faintly aware of Gene watching her out of the corner of his eye. She smiled amusedly to herself as she attempted to smooth her hair, to no avail. "Well, if you're sure you're okay with me being around a whole lott'a drunk, good-looking Yank soldiers, then I'll be off." She glanced over her shoulder to watch for his reaction.

He chuckled, though she was certain she spotted the faintest glimmer of possessiveness appear on his face. "I'll be waiting for you here when you get back. I always will be."

_A/N: Wow, dialogue! Ahahha, hope you enjoyed. Just a little piece that I whipped up in class just now. I've been looking forward to writing the next few scenes for a long while, but now that it's finally here… Ah! It should be fun, though. Lots of Speirs, Luz, Nixon and Winters to look forward to, and I love writing for all of them. The epilogue should be interesting, too, but I won't spoil the surprise. :D_

_Hope you enjoyed this one, my sweets. Review if you like, and I'll get to work on the next chapters._

_xx_


	65. A Battyderp Announcement

So, this is just a little apology note I'll delete after I upload the next chapter. Yes, _after_, not _if_. I am so ridiculously guilty at having not uploaded in… Well, I don't even want to count how long it's been. Words cannot describe how sorry I am to all you amazing, loyal people. I love you all, so thank you for sticking with it. Don't be afraid to message me and tell me to get my arse into gear! This just isn't good enough ahah.

I have just been so busy with exams and stuff, but now it's the school holidays, so yay! I swear to you, I will finish this story very soon. There is so little to go! I knew that I had to get my act together when I had a dream about Emilie. That just isn't right! But it means she's a part of my soul now. It wasn't a bad dream or anything, it was just her saying 'what about me?' Do I sound insane? We're all a little mad here, my darlings! Plus the fact that every time one of the songs that I associate with her came on I felt so terrible because I've let you all down ahaha. Fangirl problems.

See you all very, very soon. You are all incredible, and I am so lucky to have readers like you. 3

Kaitie (:

xx


	66. Merriment

_A/N: asiuchisudhczsc one again, I'm terribly late with the update! Can you ever forgive me, my loves? I cannot apologise enough. I've just been so tired lately, ahaha. And I just finished my last day of school for the year, so before that was exams, and yada yada yada, that's no excuse! I'll try to get new chapters up asap, and that's a promise. By the way, my mum and I are heading on a one month Europe trip next year, and we are visiting so many countries – you think a month is a long time, but it's really not when it comes down to it! D: Anyway, we're going to Berchtesgaden, so yay! Normandy, too. Of course, Taking Chances will be finished by then, but it'll be awesome to be able to actually walk through where some of the scenes are set. Oh, I don't know if my heart will be able to take it._

_Enjoy, and review if you like. Thank you to all of my amazing reviewers. Even if I don't get a chance to say thank you personally, please know it's not because I'm snubbing you. It's just my computer playing up. I love each and every one of you! And to my awesome new reader, thank you! It's so interesting that you're related to General le Clerc! Wow! I really hope I haven't done him a dishonour or anything. 3_

_LONG CHAPTER YIKES. So, I'm going to split it in two. Or three. Or whatever works. (; Once again, a few bits in this chapter actually happened, with the main one being the part with Speirs, Carson and Tab. Another is the party at the end, with the slurred dialogue taken directly from Webster's own words. Is it strange that it's actually harder to write these chapters than the ones still set in the war ahaha? _

_Words cannot describe how sorry I am. It's just not good enough, and my dream about Emilie proves that, plus the fact that, any time any of the songs I associate came on, I wanted to bury my face in shame. It wasn't a bad dream or anything, just her saying 'what about me?'. Do I sound insane? Probably. But we're all a little mad here, my darlings! _

_Now, before my hand falls off…_

_xx_

"_La guerre est finis! La guerre est finis!_"

The shouting was the first thing that met her ears when she swung open the door and stepped out onto the street. The French were even more rowdy than the Americans, it seemed, and twice as drunk. They were running about, shaking hands, shooting their machine-pistols in the air, slapping everyone on the back, asking for cigarettes, offering drinks.

For a moment, a twinge of uncertainty made itself known to Emilie and she stopped by the safety of the door; she hadn't been in a situation like this for years. The thought of how long it had been startled her, and she forced the hesitation down. No. It was the end of the war; she was going to enjoy herself and forgot about the self-destructive rampage she had been on lately.

"Hey, you!"

Emilie glanced up, searching for the source of the voice. There were men running every which way, and whilst they were certainly calling for her, she had no intention of going to them, and did nothing more than laugh.

"What, are you deaf?" Now she found who had spoken, and quirked her eyebrows as Captain Nixon swaggered over, what looked to be a bottle of Vat 69 clutched in one hand. He drew to a halt beside her, turning so he was leaning against the wall. Nixon raised the bottle to his lips as he cocked his head to face her. "So, you decided to honour us with your presence, sergeant?"

For a moment her sorrow shone through, before she masked it with a crooked smile, rolling her eyes. He was most likely too drunk to notice, something she was indeed thankful for. "Oh, there's no sergeant here anymore," she told him, shrugging and breaking the eye contact to survey the celebration around them. "It's just Emilie now."

"Well, in that case," he offered her the bottle, to which she declined. "I guess I'm _just Lewis_."

She shook her head with a chuckle – more like a sharp exhalation of air – and tipped her head back to look fix him with her gaze once more. "Guess so."

"Now, Emilie, where's the Doc?"

"Back upstairs, resting up."

Lewis nodded, smirking, fingers drumming absently against the glass bottle. "I guess medics…" He trailed off as he seemed to remember what position the woman he was speaking to had once held. Chuckling at his own forgetfulness, he ran a hand through his dark hair. "Never mind."

Emilie turned to face him, one shoulder still resting against the wall, her arms folded over her chest. "No, what were you going to say?" she asked, struggling to fight down the grin that begged to make itself known.

He opened his mouth to say something, before clearly rethinking it. Lewis smiled in amusement, before chucking the empty bottle over his shoulder and seizing her by the wrist. She frowned, stifling the surprised gasp, and was just about to question him when he began walking, dragging her behind him. "Nothing," he called over his shoulder, glancing back to flash her a grin, "Come on. Let's get a drink."

"Are you sure you need more?" she asked, but her voice was drowned out by the laughter and cheering of men around her as they chattered merrily amongst each other, acting more like children than hardened soldiers. The Germans would never do this. At the thought, she wanted to weep outright, then and there, but she inwardly swatted it away. She had to learn to put things behind her and focus on the present – not the future, and certainly not the past. She had a sinking feeling she was never achieve that goal, however.

As she passed by, Lewis weaving around men and forging a path for her, the other soldiers of Easy Company greeted her cheerfully. A few from other companies, evidently; word of her had obviously gotten around, and she did not know whether to be flattered at the notion, or blush, something very unbecoming to someone like her.

"Hey, Emilie!"

"You came down to join us!"

"Hey, sweetheart, I can make your stay worthwhile."

Finally, they arrived to where a small trailer had been attached to an army jeep; it was filled to the brim with alcohol of all names, shapes and sizes, from all over the world. The majority of it seemed to have been left to age for decades. Sweeping an arm proudly towards it, Lewis announced, "Help yourself."

Emilie blinked, stepping forward and plunging her hand into the trailer, pulling out the first one her fingers fastened around, as though it were a lucky dip. She held it up to the light: Russian vodka. "Where the hell did you get all this?" she asked in amazement, glancing up to Lewis with a disbelieving laugh.

"Goering's place," he replied wistfully, not looking up from where he was staring at the mound as though it were a fallen star. She half expected him to start drooling.

She scoffed. "The bastard had good taste."

"Don't waste it, then," he gestured to the bottle she was still holding. "Drink up."

"Alright, hold your horses," she laughed, securing her right hand around the top and twisting. When a moment had passed without success, Lewis looked ready to help, but she stepped back, glaring at him before turning back to the bottle, despite the fact her knuckles were white and palms stinging with the effort. Finally, it opened with a satisfying pop. Emilie held it up triumphantly, to which he smirked and took another drink from a bottle of Vat 69 she hadn't seen hm acquire.

"I believe the point is to actually drink it, not just wave it around," he told her, shrugging as though it were a mere suggestion. "But don't take my word for it."

Emilie raised her eyebrows, leaning forward before rocking back on her heels. "You know, I believe the point is to actually _shut up_." Any onlooker would have thought she simply hated him, but that was far from the case. In actuality, she had just met him, and already considered him her friend. They were both as irritating as each other.

"Is that the best you can come up with? Jesus, if this is how you are sober, I dread to see you drunk." He smiled charmingly, running his tongue over his front teeth as though savouring every last bit of the alcohol.

She lowered her gaze to the bottle she clutched, turning it over and over in her hands. She hadn't had so much as a drop since… Well, she couldn't even remember the last time she had had a drink; possibly back in Australia. Her body was no longer used to it, and she was certain she was going to regret it in the morning more than anyone else. Ah well. "Shug a lug," she chuckled, raising her bottle in a toast before pressing it to her lips and throwing her head back. The moment it hit her throat, she coughed, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth.

Lewis laughed loudly. It seemed to be contagious, as she was soon joining in. _God, why am I acting so stupid?_ _The people I couldn't save don't get to have fun anymore. _A wave of anger crashed over her and she shoved the thought aside. "Jesus," she choked out, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, shoulders still heaving as she laughed. "What the fuck was that? What happened to my alcohol tolerance? I would have been able to drink you under the table a few years ago." She pointed the bottle at him as she spoke, already feeling the haze of the liquor taking over.

Suddenly, a bottle smashed right by her feet. It wouldn't have been at all surprising if it hadn't fallen from directly above her. Swallowing the whiskey and cringing, Emilie raised her eyes to see an open window, light streaming out of it; if she remembered correctly, the building was Easy's HQ.

"That was close," Lewis commented, clearly amused at the fact she could have shards of glass imbedded in her skull. Soldiers did have a rather grim sense of humour at times.

Emilie was scarcely listening. "Who's up there?"

"Don't know." His eyes flicked to the side as two men began to clamber up the side of a wall, having some kind of climbing competition. They dropped down a moment later, defeated, one of them failing to land on his feet and instead crashing into an onlooker, toppling him over as though they were dominoes. Lewis snorted as he watched and Emilie glanced over, a wry smile playing at her lips as she watched the scene.

"I'm going to head up there," she told him, taking a step forward and placing a light hand on his arm in an attempt to turn his attention back to her. "Do you mind if I leave you all by your lonesome, soldier?"

Lewis feigned hurt, clasping a hand over his heart, chin quivering. "Baby, you're breaking my heart." He gave a mock sob, to which she rolled her eyes, shoving him so he stumbled; he chuckled, righting himself and taking another swig.


	67. Breaking The Rules

Turning, Emilie made her way through the crowd, using her smaller size to her advantage as she ducked between the men. Once she reached the door, she turned the handle and stepped inside. When she clicked it shut, the noise from outside more-or-less faded into the background, being replaced by loud, drunken talking from upstairs. But as much as she strained her ears and held her breath to listen, she couldn't recognise the voices. Certainly, she recognised them, but was unable to appoint them names.

One hand on the smooth, polished banister, Emilie began up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. When she arrived in what she assumed was the orderly room, she was met by two men seated in chairs by the window, one slouching with his feet up while the other remained straightened, only slightly leaning forward as he popped the cork on a champagne bottle.

Evidently, they had not yet noticed her, and she supposed alcohol dulled the senses of even the great paratroopers. She leaned against the doorway, the mouth of the bottle resting against her chin, not making a sound as she searched the recesses of her mind for their names. What was happening to her memory? Perhaps things weren't as urgent now, since the surrender of the Japanese. When her mind wandered from the topic, their names suddenly came rushing back to her: Captain Speirs and Sergeant Carson.

"How many does that make it then, Ron?" Carson asked, taking the champagne from his ranking officer as though they were both but privates.

Speirs' eyes flicked up to stare at the other man for a long moment, as though he didn't approve of being called by his first name, before he finally shrugged slightly, sitting up straighter. That was when Emilie forgot she was not supposed to be noticed, and rearranged herself to put her weight on her other leg, making the door creak at the movement. Captain Speirs' icy gaze turned on her and he blinked, rising from his chair. It took Carson a second before he followed his eyes, but he was on his feet, too, before very long.

"What are you doing here?" Speirs demanded. But his tone was not particularly angry, nor was it eerily calm and detached as it often was; this was aided by the fact his words were slightly slurred by the drinks, no matter how hard he tried to raise his chin and appear perfectly fine. Carson, too, was trying to remain nonchalant, but she saw him stumble a little and his fingers inch towards the support of the chair behind him.

Emilie shrugged, shoving aside her nerves as she hopped away from the door, walking calmly towards them, one hand trailing along the wall as she struggled to seem like she was perfectly at home in the company of the pair. "Sorry to crash your party," she replied simply, eyes flicking back over to them from where they had been momentarily resting on a painting of Hitler in all his glory above her. She wanted to burn it; perhaps half of the reason she seemed to loathe him even more than the rest of the world did was because she, too, had been sucked in by his words. At the start of his power, she had attended one of his speeches in a grand stadium. He had stood down on the green, speaking into a microphone, promising a bright future for Germany, a stronger future, a future where the other nations would bow down to them. Who wouldn't want that for their country?

But she could not figure out, nor did she want to, whether she hated him, or herself more for allowing herself to be drawn in so foolishly.

Speirs blinked slowly, deliberately. "What are you doing here?" he repeated, voice cool and laced with authority.

"I came up to investigate," she explained, smiling smugly with her eyebrows quirked slightly and head tilted to the side, cheeks dimpled. "Thought I might have to do some yelling. After all," she placed a finger to her chin, pretending to ponder on something for a moment. Speirs did not seem impressed with her little display, but before he could interrupt, she continued. "Wasn't it you, Captain, that enacted a new rule trying to stop the soldiers from being so destructive when drunk? Funny, because that bottle you tossed out of the window could've done someone some serious damage."

For a second, he seemed a mixture of two emotions: enraged that someone – a woman, a former enemy sergeant – would be treating him with such disrespect when his own men seemed frightened of him; and impressed for the same reason. "That was Carson," he responded uncharacteristically, gesturing to the man beside him. But he certainly did not seem in the least distressed or intimidated by her.

"H—" The other soldier cut himself off immediately, seeming to remember who he was about to snap at, even if Speirs didn't so much as look at him. Rolling his eyes, Carson reached backwards for the fresh bottle of champagne his ranking officer had just opened. Holding it out to her, he asked, "Care to join us, miss?"

Speirs seemed as though he wanted to protest at the same time Emilie was about to correct Carson, before remembering she no longer _was_ a sergeant. She was just a woman far away from home. Home? "Why not?" she chimed up, speaking so she couldn't dwell on how pathetic and lost she was.

Twenty minutes later, all Hell had broken loose. Carson, Speirs and Emilie chucked the empty bottles out the French doors, where a pile had begun to rise beneath it. Needless to say, no one in the room was sober any longer. Speirs became considerably more playful and fare-free when intoxicated, whilst Carson became completely idiotic and Emilie… Well, she wasn't quite so fun. When once she had been turned into a giggling, giddy mess by alcohol, now she became melancholy and irritable, lounging around whilst the thoughts she had forbidden from entering her mind broke down her defences.

"Are you any good with that .45 pistol?" Speirs suddenly piped up from where he and the other man had retreated to the balcony for some fresh air.

Carson snorted. "I'm a paratrooper, Ron."

Emilie craned her neck over the back of the chair; her legs were flung over the top while her head hung in mid-air off the front of it, hoping having blood rush to her head would clear her mind. So far, it wasn't working, but she was pretty sure blood was going to come pouring from her nose any second. "Woah," she muttered as she pulled herself back up into a sitting position, her head spinning. Suddenly off balance, she lost her grip on the arms of the chair and toppled backwards, landing on the floorboards with a dull thud and narrowly avoiding striking her _Kopf_ on the table. "Shit. I'm fine." But no one had even noticed. Why did she get the impression she was reliving her childhood?

Dragging herself to her feet, rubbing the back of her head, Emilie hobbled over to the balcony, leaning against the railing, enjoying the warm air thick with pollen after Bastogne. Never before had she been so happy to have the blooming flowers trigger her asthma. It was glorious.

"Let's see you take the neck off that bottle," Speirs was saying, pointing to one of the bottles on top of the stack below them.

"Didn't you—" she began, but Carson had already aimed and fired. He shattered a bottle he had not been aiming for, and cursed – "son of a bitch!" -, spinning around and rubbing the back of his neck in humiliation. Emilie grinned lopsidedly but said nothing. Men were prideful, and dangerous when they were armed, and it seemed that she was more sensible when drunk than at any other time, as she opted to shut up.

Holding out his hand, Speirs spoke up: "Give it here." Carson obliged, Speirs aimed, fired, but ended up with the same result: a shattered bottle. At this, the fearless soldier missing, Emilie couldn't help but snort, and Speirs set her with a warning glare. She simply smiled back innocently.

"Surely you can do better than that," she commented, stifling a yawn.

Soon, Speirs and Carson were filling the night air with pistol shots, breaking bottles here, there and everywhere. Emilie had a go, but failed dismally. She had tried to hang onto the weapon in order to try round two, having never liked to be upstaged, but Carson plucked it from her by leaning over her shoulder, something she had not at all been happy about.

At that moment, the door downstairs banged open and she jumped, much to her irritation, spinning around. For a few seconds, neither of the men noticed, the noise drowned out by the gun, before Carson heard the footsteps and put a hand over the weapon Speirs was currently wielding. His ranking officer opened his mouth to say something in indignation, but Carson had already gestured to the door. Suddenly flustered, Carson seemed to consider a myriad of options: throw the pistol over the railing, give it to Emilie, hide it under a cushion. But then he appeared to realise he had immunity while he was with Speirs, who didn't seem deterred in the least, rather as dignified as ever. The whole time, Emilie had been snickering away.

Before anyone could do or say anything more, a soldier she recognised as Sergeant Talbert erupted into the room, his face red, looking ready to shoot the offenders of the company order, the very same order Emilie had tried to remind Speirs and Carson of, to no avail. "Carson, I'll have your ass for this," Talbert shouted, having spotted him first.

Just as he began to explain Captain Speirs had ordered no shooting (particularly of German weapons, as that gave everyone quite a fright whenever they heard them go off), the very same man he had been speaking of stepped out from behind Carson, the smoking .45 in his hand.

There followed a few seconds of confused, awkward silence, in which Talbert stood gaping at his ranking officer before drawing himself into a salute. Finally, Speirs spoke: "I'm sorry, Sergeant. I caused this. I forgot my own order."

More silence. "Talk about irony," Emilie commented with a forced laugh, but her attempt at humour went unappreciated.


	68. Out Of Darkness, Into Light

Saying her goodbyes, Emilie half-walked, half-tripped down the stairs. After watching her amusedly for a long moment, Speirs eventually offered her his hand to help guide her down, despite the fact he was scarcely managing to stay upright any more than she, but she stubbornly refused. Outside, the French had seized control of the party, and it was much the same as she had seen before. A few of them raced over to her with cries of 'ey, lovely lady, oui?' She simply waved them off, winking and fighting to smother her grin. With great relief, she ducked back into the entrance hall of the apartments half of Easy Company were lodged in, already envisioning slipping back into the warm bed with Eugene and, if the odds were in her favour, which they so rarely were, actually sleeping for the first time in over six years.

But that was not to be.

"Well, look who it is!"

Vision half-blurred, Emilie blinked and in the next second George Luz was standing before her, brandishing a half-empty (not half-full, ever the pessimist) bottle of champagne. In the next room, there were the gleeful shouts of the other paratroopers and piercing smashes as bottles were broken on the floor. Emilie couldn't help but wonder how much sleep Gene was getting done with this raucous noise downstairs. She could imagine that she looked a right, old wreck, and rubbed a hand across her eyes. She couldn't even imagine what time it was.

"Luz," she greeted with a small smile, her exhaustion evaporating at the mere sight of his energetic nature. She supposed that he would correct any other woman, insist they call him by his first name. But perhaps he realised that she was still a soldier at heart, and it was their custom to address their comrades by their surnames. "Fancy meeting you here."

His smile widened, and he darted forward to secure his hands around her forearm. "Yeah, yeah, hey," he chirped, already beginning to lead her towards the other room, "Come join us. What's a party without a girl, right? Oh." He drew to an abrupt halt, glancing over to her. "Unless you wanna head on back to Gene."

"He…" Emilie chuckled, shaking her head, and began to walk once more; he was more than happy to oblige. "He can last a little while longer without me buggin' him."

"Huh?" The noise had already drowned her out; she began to repeat herself, before smiling and shaking her head. Luz shrugged and dragged her through the crowd. Around her, all the men acted as though they were children and she were their show and tell in class.

As soon as she was spotted, all attention was turned to her. The soldiers talked over each other in an effort to be heard by the former medic.

"So, you're really a Sheila?" Perconte was asking, having pushed his way to the front of the crowd. They were around the same height, meaning he, Emilie and Luz, not entirely tall people to begin with, were now surrounded by men that loomed over them. It wasn't exactly a comforting feeling, but she paid it little attention. At least it meant that, if she fell over, drunk, it would be a soft landing. "'Cause, the thing is, I've spoken to a whole bunch of Aussies and they're a hell of a lot more easy to pick out than you. No offense or nothin', Emilie."

She chuckled, shrugging. Clearing her throat, she answered, "Well, fair dinkum, mate, you should'a just ask me before'and!" Her words were met by surprised exclamations and further booming laughter. "See, I've been 'eading back and forth between Germany since I was just a bloody ankle biter. My family never really got into the whole bangers and mash thing, nor did we hang around the billabong with the billy, boomer, bunyip, the didge and the boomerangs. Nah, bloke, my favourite brekkie was vegemite on pumpernickel. Bloody oath, that is a real beaut! Since my parents are Krauts, I didn't pick up the 'Strine accent as well as I could've. So, there we go! Bob's your uncle. Let's pop these bombos and have us a ripper of a night, that hopefully won't end with us all having a blue, hey? Jeez, you're bottling your blood's worthy but you still don't know Christmas from Bourke Street. Here's hoping you can tell a stick from a brown-eyed mullet, 'else you'll be lookin' like a _stunned_ mullet!"

Finishing with a long drink from the champagne bottle she immediately regretted, she swayed and just hoped she wasn't going to throw up. A wild round of applause met her and she couldn't help but smile. Yet even then, guilt continued to nip at her heart, her soul her entire being. A few days ago, her mission had been to help kill these men.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, there began a part unequalled. Drinks were spilled all over the place. There were ringing shouts, stammering, lisping sentences. One man even began washing dirty clothes, which was greatly appreciated by the other soldiers. Before the night was over, half of Easy Company was already unconscious, draped all over the floor, but that didn't deter the rest of the men.

At one point, the names she had been so desperate to remember came crashing back into her mind, and she found herself jumping out and down, yelling, "That's it! I remember! Sledge and Snafu!" Spinning around, she grabbed Luz's collar and continued to bounce up and down like a wounded kangaroo. "Luz, I'm not a complete idiot!"

"You know, you aren't doing your argument a favour," he commented, eyeing her with a wry smile. Strange that two of the smallest people had outlasted the others in terms of alcohol tolerance.

All around her, there were cries of, "Have anusher glash Here, goddammit, lemme pop that cork – is my turn. Ish thish wunnderful? Shugalug. Filler up. Where is Hitler? We gotta thank Hitler, the shun uvva bish. Berchtesgaden, I love you."

And that was the end of the war. The Germans, the Japanese, they had all officially surrendered. Adolf Hitler was dead. It wouldn't bring back all those she had lost, but as Emilie stood there, surveying the mess they had created, she wasn't sure whether she wanted to cry or smile. It was as good an alternative as any other she could think of. It may not have Drechsler or Tobias, Crichton, Kat, or even that damned Eberhardt. And though she could never truly replace them, and didn't want to, they, Easy Company, were a good place to start.

_A/N: Just a little more to go! Actually… I estimate around four more chapters. I know, I keep saying that, but there's just so many awesome things I want to include! I don't want to just suddenly end the story; I want to kind of ease into it, you know? Yeah, you know, you're all smartie pants. Anywho, a few teasers for the coming chapters: the gang make their way to Zell Am See, Austria, where, on the ride over, there is a bit of tension between Liebgott and Emilie; one chapter of more interactions between her and the guys, working off of historical events; and then the epilogue, which will probably come in about three parts, so more than four chapters then, ahaha. _

_That will include something I have been looking forward to writing since I started this, and then two long-anticipated events: Emilie delivering Julian's letter to his family, aaaand… Well, all I'll tell you is it includes a certain Helga, aka Emilie's darling mummy, Gene, Emilie, and Tobias' grave… DUN DUN DUN!_

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and review if you like. You know how much they warm my heart. 3_

_xx_


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